


red in tooth and claw

by halfdesertedstreets



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (those last five tags are my M.O. for this fandom tbh), Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Compliant Drug Abuse, Endgame PB&J or Bust, F/F, Implied/Referenced Biphobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Female Character(s)/Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Podfic Available, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, canon-typical alcohol use, if reading 70k while constantly muttering 'please just get together' is not your cup of tea, the OCs are the daemons btw, turn back now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfdesertedstreets/pseuds/halfdesertedstreets
Summary: It says something about Jack that his Isolde didn’t settle until he was seventeen years old. It says more that when she finallydidsettle, she ended up being—well, you know——a badger.--Or, a Daemon AU.





	1. his shadow follows at his heels

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Check Please! Big Bang 2018. Many thanks to the wonderful [shipped-goldstandard](http://shipped-goldstandard.tumblr.com) for creating not [one](https://8tracks.com/letsgetfamous/fight), not [two](https://8tracks.com/letsgetfamous/worth), but [_three_](https://8tracks.com/letsgetfamous/trust) whole playlists for this fic. <3 (Please listen as you read, if that's a thing for you - Jack's playlist in particular is just perfect for all his parts. <3)
> 
> Thanks also to [Linnea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwyrmling/pseuds/bookwyrmling), [Julorean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julorean/pseuds/Julorean), [legojacques](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterruptingDinosaur/pseuds/legojacques), & G for being the best betas anyone could ask for. Thank you to the ParsePosse and the JackParse Discords for the peptalks and the sprints. Thanks also to the mods for running this whole shebang. And, of course, many thanks to you, dear readers! 
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters are not mine; all credit goes to [ngoziu](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he’s twelve, Jack’s Isolde takes to wearing the form of a wolf so often that everybody assumes she’s already settled. She hasn’t, though, slipping into the shape of a sparrow or a mouse—always something small, something good at hiding—and burrowing to rest against the nape of his neck once the lights are out and he’s settling down to sleep.
> 
> “Do you think you’re gonna be a wolf?” he asks her once, hopeful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Mild ableism with regards to mental health issues, canon-typical depictions of anxiety.
> 
> If you are unfamiliar with daemon!AUs, please see endnotes for an explanation.

 

* * *

 

_**CH. 1: his shadow at his heels** _

 

* * *

When he’s twelve, Jack’s Isolde takes to wearing the form of a wolf so often that everybody assumes she’s already settled. She hasn’t, though, slipping into the shape of a sparrow or a mouse—always something small, something good at hiding—and burrowing to rest against the nape of his neck once the lights are out and he’s settling down to sleep.

“Do you think you’re gonna be a wolf?” he asks her once, hopeful. His dad’s Dianthe is a gray wolf, fierce and dark-furred and beautiful, a warrior of a daemon who showed up on NHL highlight reels as often as her human for the way she’d barrel through the other daemons on the designated sidelines. She’d keep apace with Bad Bob’s movements on the ice, fangs bared, shoulders squared, undaunted in the face of bears or lynxes or coyotes, leaping over them with surety and grace to make sure Bob was never hampered by the tug between human and daemon.

Jack loves Dianthe, used to hide his face in her fur and let her growl away the reporters or fans who got too close, loved how she’d turn her head right after and wink at him, bopping him playfully on the nose—the sweet, goofy Dianthe the cameras never captured.

Isolde loves Dianthe, too, practically worships the ground she walks on. And daemon forms regularly run in families, so it’s not such a far-fetched idea. It’d be a good thing, Isolde being a wolf. She’d be big enough and fast enough for them to make it in the NHL, then.

If she was a wolf.

“Maybe,” Isolde answers, just as hopeful. Her tail wags once, twice, then stills.

 

___

 

Jack turns thirteen, then fourteen, and Isolde still doesn’t settle. His mother tells him not to worry, reminds him that her Ciarán didn’t settle until she was nearly fifteen.

“It’s fine, Jack,” she tells him, smoothing back his hair. “Not everybody settles early.”

“Maman, _eleven_ counts as early, and I’m already way past that point. I’m _late_ now,” he complains, tilting his head away to avoid her hand. It’s easier than it used to be—he has a few inches on her now, and he’s getting taller every day.  

His mother desists, and, beside them, Ciarán likewise stops trying to groom Isolde, though she stays peaceably between his paws, shifting from her habitual wolf form into a small stoat. His mother’s border collie promptly curls his body around her, a pleased growl rumbling in his chest. Alicia grins down at the two of them, nudging Jack with her shoulder.

“Let’s take a picture of them,” she suggests brightly.

“Maman—” Jack tries, but she was already in the next room over, rummaging for her camera.

Jack turns to his daemon instead. “Isolde, don’t encourage them,” he says, exasperated.

“It’s fine,” she tells him, wrinkling her snout playfully.

“It’s _not_ ,” Jack shoots back. They were never going to settle if they didn’t act like they were mature adults, and letting your mother’s daemon coddle you was _not_ mature, adult-like behavior.

“Jack,” Isolde says, quieter, “it’s fine.”

Jack just shakes his head. It doesn’t make any sense—he and Isolde know exactly who they are and where they stand, while most people at his high school can’t even decide on what they want to have for lunch, let alone what they want to do with the rest of their lives. Jack’s already got his life plan figured out for the next twenty-five years, and has since he was _six_. Isolde should have settled ages ago.

“We’ve got to do better than this,” he mutters.

When his mother comes back and takes the picture, he’s still frowning, his brows drawn disapprovingly as he glances at the camera, the daemons at his feet.

Looking back on the moment, it’s not much of a surprise. Most photos of him from that time show him frowning, the expression sitting less awkwardly on his face than his attempts to smile.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s better to stick to what you’re good at, after all.

 

___

 

On his fifteenth birthday, Isolde still hasn’t settled.

On his fifteenth birthday, Isolde stops appearing as anything other than a wolf beyond the doors of his house.

A few weeks later, his parents send him to a shrink for the first time. The shrink eyes him up and down, talks to him in a bland, calming voice, and conspicuously doesn’t write anything down on the notebook he has opened on his desk. Jack wishes he would; the blank pages just make him more nervous.

His psychiatrist’s daemon is a sleek mink, curled up on one of the bookshelves. She doesn’t speak a word to Isolde the whole session, merely nods in greeting when they first enter and then proceeds to ignore them in favor of sleeping. Honestly, Jack wishes he could do the same.

“Well, Jack, it’s been a pleasure,” his psychiatrist says at the end of their first meeting, shaking his hand. “I’m sure we can find something to help you soon.”

Jack makes sure to grip his hand firmly, look him squarely in the eye, and tip his head down in acknowledgement. He doesn’t mention how he doesn’t think that last statement is likely to come true.

 

___

 

The sessions go like this for a month, and at the end of it, Jack is diagnosed with anxiety.

This is a surprise only in that he hadn’t been aware before that it could be an official illness, something scientifically identifiable and treatable.

“I thought it was just another thing wrong with us,” Isolde murmurs to him after, the both of them curled up under his comforter so that none of their limbs stick out. So that no one can see that Isolde’s changing forms every three minutes or so—first a ferret, then a gecko, then a fruit bat, then a variety of different types of house-pets, changing and changing every time she so much as circles in place. “I didn’t think it was—” She stops herself, cutting off abruptly.

“—explainable,” Jack finishes for her. He’d read the brochures, same as her. A chemical imbalance in his brain. Perfectly manageable. Not curable, of course, but perfectly manageable.

With the right type of medication. 

His psychiatrist had written up a prescription for him, and they’d dropped by the pharmacy right afterward to fill it. His parents were told to make sure he took one a day, with stern instructions not to let him skip any doses during this trial run, just to make sure it was taking the proper effect. Just to make sure they could observe if it had any undue side effects on him or Isolde.

Jack doesn’t think that’s going to be a problem. It couldn’t be worse than that time he and Isolde had a panic attack and were convinced they were dying, and his shrink told him that these pills were _designed_ to make sure he didn’t get them.

“It should be okay,” he tells Isolde, putting as much conviction into his voice as he can. He pets her behind the ears reassuringly, and lets her curl up on his chest. She’s a little Pomeranian, black and fluffy and trembling, but no one’s here to judge them, so it’s fine.

He says, “We’re going to be fine.”

“Okay,” Isolde says. She wags her tail once, twice, then leaps out of their cocoon of pillows and blankets, landing on the floor with a solid thump.

When Jack pokes his head out, he can see that she’s changed back into a wolf, black-furred and built in lean, dangerous lines.

“Any day now,” she tells him. “It’ll stick any day now. You’ll see.”

“Okay,” Jack answers.

They go to sleep.

 

___

 

The pills work better than expected. Jack is prepared to concede that maybe his psychiatrist had a point, and that his parents were right to send him.

“See?” Ciarán tells Isolde. “The two of you are doing so much better now, sweetheart.” He butts his head against her shoulder, uncaring that she has a good fifty pounds on him and barely moves an inch; Isolde’s almost as big as Dianthe these days, but Ciarán’s never let size stop him from bossing either of them around. They all know who the top dogs in this house are, and that’s Alicia and her daemon.

Isolde lets her tongue loll out in a wolfish grin and doesn’t dispute his words, because, for once, they happen to be true.  

Jack smiles with her, and lets his mother fuss with his hair.

 

___

 

Jack turns sixteen and gets drafted into Rimouski Océanic. He arrives at his billet house with a five-piece set of matching luggage and two duffel bags stuffed full of hockey gear. There’s a very large carrier for Isolde to rest in when they go on roadies, and a bottle of pills tucked into one of his socks, and, between those two things, he thinks he’s pretty much set for the year.

“Let’s do this,” he tells Isolde.

She wags her tail once, twice, and follows him out the door without question.  

 

___

 

“Alright, boys, line it up!” one of the assistant coaches yells, smacking his clipboard against the boards.

All the rookies let their chatter die down, turning to face him and the rest of the staff. Their head coach, Hardison, surveys them all with an impassive glance, arms crossed as he looks over first the humans, then their daemons, who stand obediently on the sidelines, a few of them fidgeting nervously but most still and at attention. Jack is pleased to see that Isolde is sitting up, poised and alert, looking much more put-together than most of the others.

The majority of the daemons are the usual mix of large predators common at this level of hockey: lynxes, wolves, coyotes. There’re a few deer and birds of prey, too, falcons and hawks and—is that a hummingbird?

Jack looks closer. It _is_ a hummingbird. Hm. Unexpected, but as long as she flies fast enough, size shouldn’t be a problem.

Coach Hardison gives a short introductory speech, and then it’s back to running drills and playing a few scrimmages, the rookies all getting a feel for each other.

Jack’s not fazed, even though they’re pretty much put through the wringer. He can handle it—hockey’s comforting. Familiar. He always knows what to do on the ice. Not even his teammates’ stares, their slight hesitation, their distance from him, can affect him overmuch. He’s used to this, too.

They’ll accept him as soon as the season starts and he puts points on the board. They always do. It’s how winning _works_.

In the meantime, he tears down the ice, Isolde a familiar, comforting blur in the corner of his eye as they demolish the other side in the latest scrimmage.

 

___

 

“Jesus Christ, I do _not_ think I can feel my legs anymore,” one of the left wingers says. “Berger, buddy, help a guy out—can you check to see that my feet are still attached to me? Everything below the knee is kinda fuzzy, and I’m getting worried.” He sticks a foot out, wiggling it slightly, his head tilted back and his face covered with a towel, obscuring his features. Jack can still make out the riot of blond curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, though. He’s one of the Americans, Jack thinks, which is why he doesn’t seem familiar. Unlike most of the others here, Jack hasn’t played on or against one of the teams he’s been on.

Bergeron seems to know him, though, because he just grunts in return and steps on the winger’s foot. “Oh, look. Still there,” he says, deadpan. Next to him, the stocky mastiff who must be his daemon chuckles quietly.

“Ow! Ow! What the hell man, oh, my _God_ , you suck! Get off, you absolute dickhead!” The winger pushes ineffectively at the bulk of the largest of Rimouski’s new defensemen, the towel falling off his face as he groans theatrically. “Zezzie! Zezzie! Come save me!”

Rzeznik, one of their goalies, looks up from where he’s sitting on Bergeron’s other side. “Wait a minute, were you talking to me?” he asks, brows furrowing, sticking his head out to look questioningly at his struggling teammate. The hummingbird daemon Jack noticed earlier is hovering around the three humans, darting quickly back and forth between the blond winger and Rzeznik. She must belong to the loud guy, Jack decides, judging from how anxious she seems at his distress.

The winger looks quizzically at Rzeznik. “Uh, duh? Who else would I be talking to? You are right the fuck there and conveniently close enough to rescue me, so, like, I really appreciate if you would get with the program and commence with the saving before Berger severs my poor, innocent foot with his gigantic—”

“Do you even have an innocent bone left in your body anymore, Parse?” Rzeznik wonders. “Also, I know I told you that my nickname is Nicky.”

“And we _agreed_ that Zezzie is much, much cooler, so the proper response is, ‘Thank you for giving me a new one, Parse,’ to which I reply, ‘No problem,’ and, by the way, of _course_ I have innocent bones left in me! My entire skeleton is immaculate, completely free of blame, utterly and unjustly slandered—”  

At that, Isolde chokes on a small giggle, surprised into laughter, and Parse—is that his name, or his nickname? Jack isn’t entirely sure, though he’s leaning towards the latter—swings his head around to look at her, pleased. “See?” he tells Zezzie. “ _She_ agrees with me, don’t you, sweetheart?”

At that, Isolde turns to look up at Jack, who finishes pulling on his sweater. “Don’t bring Isolde into this,” he says, shrugging slightly.

Judging from his teammates’ expressions, he must have sounded too curt, and not joking like he’d been aiming for.

The only one who doesn’t seem fazed is Parse, whose grin widens as he winks audaciously at Jack, then turns back to Isolde. “Isolde, huh? That’s a pretty name. You mind if I call you Izzy? You look like an Izzy. You don’t mind helping me out, do you? You think I’m funny and worth saving, right? C’mon, Izz, tell Berger that he ought to let me go,” Parse coaxes.

 _Um_ , Isolde says uncertainly, addressing Jack in the privacy of their shared bond. _What should I—?_

She doesn’t have a chance to say more than that.

“Knock it off, Kent,” a female voice says authoritatively, and what Jack mistook for a simple pile of towels and equipment is pushed aside as—he kids you not—as a _lioness_ uncurls herself from her makeshift nest.

A _lioness_.

The entire locker room goes silent as the lioness—no, the _daemon_ stretches leisurely, claws coming out to scratch at the floor as she bends her back into a graceful arch and lets out a loud yawn. Immediately after, she straightens up and shakes her head, then pads across the room to where Parse, Bergeron, and Rzeznik are.

“I know he’s an idiot, Berger, but I’d appreciate it if you let my human go,” the daemon says matter-of-factly, uncaring of the taboo of a daemon addressing an unfamiliar human. “I promise you can demolish him later, but only at video games. We’ll need his feet, unfortunately.”  

Bergeron’s mouth is hanging open, his daemon similarly wide-eyed. “Uh. Sure,” he says eventually, taking his foot off Parse.

“Thank you,” the lioness says, sitting back on her haunches, clearly pleased, paws the size of dinner plates resting on the floor in front of her as her tail lashes back and forth.

“Dude, Val, how come you didn’t come save me earlier,” Parse whines, pouting at her.

She gives him a dead-eyed stare, baring her teeth slightly as she talks. “You dumb-ass. Why should I save someone who can’t even call me by the right name?”

“Ugh, fine,” Parse says, rolling his eyes, both he and his daemon oblivious to the glances they’re still getting, though at least the chatter has started up again. “Why didn’t you come save me sooner, _Valkyria?_ _”_

Valkyria stretches her neck in what appears to be the feline version of a shrug. “Again, because you’re a dumb-ass.”

Before Parse can reply, Berger clears his throat, finally voicing the statement on everyone’s minds: “Parse, I didn’t know your daemon was a lion.”

Parse turns to stare at him, incredulous. “The hell? How could you miss her? She’s fucking humongous,” he says, gesturing at Valkyria.

“Hey!” she hisses, tail lashing in affront.

“Babe, you know I love you, but you gotta admit your ass is larger than mine.”

“They’re called _haunches_ , and you don’t have an ass to speak of!”

“But she wasn’t at practice,” Rzeznik interrupts, his voice going up at the end, turning the uncertain statement almost into an outright question.

Parse frowns, leaning forward to finish lacing up his sneakers. “What? No, she was totally there, she was just napping in the bleachers ’cause she’s lazy.”

Valkyria sniffs. “It’s called conserving energy.”

“It’s called being lazy, Val. How’re you ever gonna make it onto the highlights reel if all you ever do is sleep?” Parse complains. “Anyway, you probably didn’t see her earlier during practice, but she was totes there.”

Berger looks back between Parse and Valkyria. “But doesn’t it—don’t you two—?”

“Oh, the distance thing? Yeah, my great-grandma was a witch, so everybody on my mom’s side of the family can separate pretty far? Not as far as actual witches, though, that requires a whole ritual and everything, and it’s fucking brutal, so, like, yeah, count me out, bud.” 

“Gotcha,” Rzeznik says slowly.

Parse nods, standing, and turns back to Berger. “Anyway, Berger, my dude, my main man—if you didn’t know Val was mine, where the hell did you think my daemon was?”

Jack watches as Berger’s eyes land on the hummingbird still buzzing around their heads. Rzeznik catches the glance and frowns. “Hey,” he says, poking Berger in the side repeatedly, “Zyllena’s _my_ daemon.”

“Dude, knock it off, I didn’t mean anything by it—I just thought she was Parse’s ’cause she was so worried,” he says, smacking Rzeznik’s hand away.

Parse snickers. “Yeah, I can see that, man. You’re a sweet one, huh?” he says to Zyllena, who’s hovering sheepishly by Rzeznik’s ear at this point. Then Parse nudges Rzeznik with his toe, distracting him from where he’s trying to give Berger a noogie. “Also, come off it, man, like you didn’t think Berger’s daemon was mine, then.”

Rzeznik guiltily eyes the mastiff at their feet. “Um.”

“She says it’s okay,” Berger says, as his daemon gives a wag of her tail.

Parse just throws his head back and laughs. He turns to face the rest of the locker room and claps his hands together, raising his voice so everyone can hear him: “Okay, people, let’s do some proper introductions, yeah? Here, I’ll start—my name’s Parse, and this lion here is my Valkyria. Val, say hi.”

“Hi,” Valkyria drawls. “Call me Val and I’ll bite your throat out.”

“She doesn’t mean that,” Parse says reassuringly.

At his side, Val grins, teeth sharp and glinting. _Attempt at your own risk_ , her expression clearly says.

“Anyhow,” Parse says, either not noticing or deliberately ignoring her, “moving on—Bergie, let’s hear it.”

“It’s _Berger_ ,” he says, flicking Parse’s ear, “and Donatella is mine,” he finishes, patting his mastiff on the head.

The introductions go swiftly after that, everyone calling out their name and the name of their daemon, until finally they get to Jack.

Jack crosses his arms, frowning. Everyone is staring at him expectantly, and he’s not sure why—they all know who he is already. They know who his daemon is. What’s the point of introducing himself, of pretending he’s like the rest of them?

“Zimmermann,” he eventually, just to break the silence. He nods at Isolde, sitting quietly at his feet. “Isolde.” She dips her head slightly in acknowledgement.

The quiet settles back into place. Jack goes for his bag so he can leave, nodding at everyone before he exits the room, Isolde at his heels. Before the door closes behind them, Jack looks back to find Parse and Valkyria watching them go, twin gazes a piercing glass-cut green underneath the light, their matching expressions both enigmatic and unreadable.

As Jack hesitates, feeling suddenly as if he should do something, say something, Parse deliberately meets his eyes, and doesn’t look away until the door closes shut between them.

Jack doesn’t know what that means, if it means anything at all or if he’s just making it up: the weight, the tension he felt as they locked gazes—

So he puts it out of his mind and makes his way toward the parking lot.

“Well,” Isolde says tentatively as they walk down the hallway, “I think that went well.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. They leave it at that.

 

___

 

Over the next few weeks, as the rookies get integrated into the team, Jack tries to fill his usual niches as the explosive powerhouse on the ice, the guy you can rely on to get the puck in the net no matter what, and the taciturn but largely inoffensive teammate off the ice, the guy who never talked to anyone but at least showed up to the parties.

He was succeeding admirably at the first, and failing at the second, mostly due to the unexpected but persistent interference of one Kent Parson.

“Zimmermann,” Parse says, popping up by his elbow without so much as a hello, “you have to get the mint chocolate chip.”

Isolde lets out a small yelp, as surprised as Jack, and steps out further to the side, curling her tail around her body. Jack doesn’t move, but he glares at Parse anyway.

Parse doesn’t notice, though, too busy leaning around him and addressing his daemon. “Oh, shit, Izz, sorry about that—didn’t mean to scare you there,” he says, sincere, then turns back to the Baskin Robbins display case. “Get the mint chocolate chip, dude,” he repeats, elbowing Jack.

Jack stares, perplexed. “Why?”

“Because I want to eat it, but I’m already getting rocky road and caramel, and Val’s gonna call me a pig if I get three scoops, so I need you to get it for me instead,” Parse answers matter-of-factly. He takes a break from perusing the different flavors to slant his gaze up at Jack, gray eyes dark beneath golden lashes. In response, Jack’s stomach gives a funny little flip that he decides not to examine too closely.

“Uh. Okay,” he says instead, just for something to do.

“Awesome, dude, you’re the best,” Parse says, punching his shoulder lightly. He calls out to the server, whose squirrel daemon is perched comfortably on her shoulder, “Hey, miss, can we get two scoops of mint chocolate chip, and one scoop each of caramel and rocky road? And make that two orders, please.”

“Wha—how is anyone supposed to understand that?” Jack says, and turns to the server himself. “I’m sorry, he meant one scoop of mint chocolate chip for me—”

Parse groans. “No, man, make it two!”

“— _one_ scoop,” Jack repeats firmly, “and one scoop of caramel _and_ one scoop of rocky road for him. We’re paying separately.” 

Parse gasps, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “Oh, my God, you’re not paying for me? How could you—I thought we were friends!”

Isolde goes stiff, and Jack says, equally discomfited, “We’re not.” They don’t have friends, him and Isolde. They have teammates, classmates, people their age whom they know—they don’t have friends.

But Parse laughs, shoulders loose as he gestures at Jack. “Can you believe this guy?” he says to the girl behind the counter, grinning easily. “Pretending like he doesn’t know me—treating me like some sort of gold-digger! The nerve of him!”

The girl smiles back, charmed, and even her daemon leans forward. “I don’t know,” she says playfully. “After all, you _were_ trying to mooch off of him, and for rocky road, of all things. Can’t blame him for wanting to cut ties after that.” She smiles at Jack, too, who clears his throat and shuffles his feet.

“Yeah,” he tries, “what kind of idiot likes rocky road?” Jack’s dad likes rocky road, too, so it’s not like Jack has anything against it, but it seems like the thing to say, seems like something his mom would joke about to strangers. Jack can just picture her, her hand curled around his dad’s arm as he protests, the affection easy and right between them.

Next to Jack, Parse squawks, indignant, but the girl laughs, and Jack laughs, too, glad he managed to get that right.

“Alright, you two, let me just—” The girl goes still, looking between Jack and Isolde, then looking at Parse, conspicuously alone. Jack suddenly remembers what he looks like to strangers, that jarring sense of something amiss about him without Valkyria by his side. “Um,” the server says, her expression disturbed, “where is—”

“His daemon is outside,” Isolde interrupts, anxious, her eyes darting between Parse and the server. She gestures with her snout to the glass storefront, a quick, sharp movement. “She’s—the tables. She’s saving us a table.”

And sure enough, when Jack and the server turn to look, Valkyria is lounging underneath _two_ tables, her head pillowed on her forelegs, for all intents and purposes fast asleep.

Parse, still smiling, says, “She likes to stay outdoors. More room, you know?”

“Oh! No, yes, of course,” their server says, obviously flustered, then busies herself with the ice cream. “Let me just get your orders for you.”

 _Thank you_ , Parse mouths at Isolde, and she wags her tail, pleased.

Jack, on the other hand, is still surprised that she talked to a stranger. He honestly can’t remember the last time she spoke to a human who wasn’t related to them. That she did it to defend Parse is another surprise, and that she knew exactly where Valkyria was the entire time is one, too. Jack didn’t even notice, having gotten used to Parse’s tendency to occasionally appear without his daemon at his heels—Valkyria’s plenty social, but she likes her space, too, and Jack respects that. He understands that.

He doesn’t quite understand what all these observations mean when taken together, but he mulls it over as they go outside with their ice cream. Parse keeps stealing spoonfuls of his mint chocolate while keeping up a one-sided stream of constant chatter, and Valkyria amiably does the same to Isolde, the two daemons stretched comfortably at their feet. Jack, meanwhile, looks at the evidence, considers the possibilities, and eventually comes to the conclusion that it means that Parse is right, and that he and Jack _are_ friends.

Jack stops when the thought comes to him, spoon of ice cream halfway to his mouth.

“Uh, earth to Jack? Hello? Is anybody in there?” Parse says, snapping his fingers loudly.

Jack looks at him, feeling like a deer in the headlights. “Yeah,” he says. Then he blurts out, “Are we friends?”

Parse blinks, and Jack feels a moment of panic, Isolde shifting restlessly by his chair—

But Parse just smiles, his eyes bright. “Yeah, man,” he says, his foot nudging Jack’s underneath the table, out of sight, “we’re friends.”

Isolde relaxes, and, after a second, Valkyria brushes their noses together. Jack feels the touch like a breath against his soul. He swallows hard.

“Okay,” he says. 

And, well—that’s that. Jack’s made his first friend.

 

___ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is late as hell, but at least it's posted. orz
> 
> For those unfamiliar with daemon!AUs, daemons are physical manifestations of a person's soul that take the form of an animal. Daemons are usually a gender different from their human; they can take any animal shape they wish until their human hits puberty, upon which they settle into a permanent form that best represents their human's personality. 
> 
> Daemons cannot travel far from their humans without both of them experiencing severe pain, and seeing a person without a daemon is like seeing a person without a head. Humans can communicate telepathically with their daemon, sense their emotions, and share some physical sensations; daemons may communicate telepathically with other daemons, but typically don't talk to humans they don't know. 
> 
> Touching another person's daemon without permission is one of the greatest taboos. If someone gives permission to touch their daemon, it's a sign of great intimacy. More [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%A6mon_\(His_Dark_Materials\)) for those curious.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	2. her roar could split the skies in two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valkyria settles when they’re a few weeks past their eleventh birthday, and for the longest time most people figured she was just a very large housecat, she was that small.
> 
> She’s not, though. She’s a lion, and Kent knew that from the first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, but let me know if I missed something. :)

* * *

 

**_CH. 2: her roar could split the skies in two_ **

 

* * *

 

 

 

Valkyria settles when they’re a few weeks past their eleventh birthday, and for the longest time most people figured she was just a very large housecat, she was that small.

She’s not, though. She’s a lion, and Kent knew that from the first.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” his mom’s Alfvandr says when he first sees her settled form, Kent holding her up for him to inspect. The crow runs his beak gently over her ear, causing Kent to giggle. “I always thought you two would take after Connor and Nym, honestly.”

His dad’s Nymaeve had been a fox, quick and clever and the funniest member of their household, always ready to tease his mom or playfully chase Valkyria or Carrie’s Fortindair around. She would always do the girl voices when his dad read them bedtime stories, and she’d liked to nap in odd places, like his mom’s huge purses or the duffel bag for his hockey gear. Alfvandr had been the one to name Kent and Carrie’s daemons, but Nym was the one who called them Val and Dair.  

Nym and his dad had died a year ago. Kent would’ve liked it if Val had taken after her, but maybe it’s better this way. There weren’t a lot of people with fox daemons playing for the NHL.

There weren’t a lot of lions, either, but then there weren’t a lot of lion daemons, period.

“Figures you’d be different,” his mom says, ruffling his hair. “Always gotta make a statement, huh, kiddo?”

Kent shrugs and holds Val closer to his chest. It’s not like _he_ chose what shape she took—it’s just the one that fit them. The one that _felt_ right, his bones settling into place as Valkyria stood up that morning, her eyes meeting his as the two of them had grinned at each other and just _known_. “I dunno,” he says, trying to play it cool, “I like it.”

His mom pauses, looking at him. “Me, too, Kenny,” she says quietly. “It suits you. Your dad would’ve—” She takes a deep breath to steady herself, Alfvandr pressing closer to comfort her. “He would’ve been proud.”

Kent swallows, then makes a face at her, scrunching his eyes up and ignoring the sudden sting in them. “Well, _duh_ ,” he says, making his voice as obnoxious as possible, “he’d have been proud if Val turned out to be a chihuahua.”

“Hey!” Val snarls, insulted.

His mom laughs, the weird tension broken. “He would’ve, wouldn’t he?” She reaches out to touch Val’s head, her touch familiar and soothing. “We would’ve been proud no matter what you settled as, kiddo.”

“So—” Kent glances up at her hopefully “—does that mean we can stay an extra hour at the rink to celebrate?”

It’s Alfvandr who answers: “Only if you already finished your math worksheets.”

Kent whoops and drops Val to the floor, and the two of them bound down the hall for their gear.

(Thank _God_ Alf hadn’t asked about the summer reading.)

 

___

 

Val hits her growth spurt before Kent does, so for basically all of bantam he walks around with 300 pounds of pure snarky lioness at his side. Kent himself, on the other hand, is lucky to break 130 pounds soaking wet. He’s heard every single joke regarding odd couples out there, but whatever. At least nobody mistakes her for a housecat anymore.

Nobody could doubt what she is when they’re on the ice together. Kent’s fast, with the softest hands in all of New York State, and that is a _fact_. Paired with Val demolishing any and all takers, they’re a pretty good team, if he does say so himself.

When he gets drafted by Rimouski the summer he turns sixteen, he acts like it’s a foregone conclusion, even if he’s internally freaking out.

“You are such a dork,” Carrie says, rolling her eyes and simultaneously seeing right through him.

“Am not,” he replies, tugging on her cowlick. Dair turns himself into a Capuchin monkey and tackles Val in retaliation, and the four of them are a tangle of limbs and fur and laughter for the next few minutes, the Q and his impending future momentarily forgotten.

It’s a good moment.

 

___

 

So, like, Kent is used to the staring.

Less than half of a hundredth of a percent of the U.S. population have lion daemons—there are literally more people with peanut allergies than there are people with the same form as him and Val, so he gets it. He enters a room, and people either jump five feet in the air or get the fuck out of the way.

(He’ll admit that this is sort of convenient, considering that Val’s fucking _huge_. She needs her space.)

It’s worse if he leaves her outside, of course—people get creeped out by the distance thing, even if it isn’t painful at all for her and Kent. He and Val can go fifty feet without breaking a sweat, while most people start having trouble at fifteen, max. Kent grew up with his Nana, though, and she hadn’t been a proper witch, not really, but she’d undergone the ritual, and she and Geirulfr could separate for _miles_. Fifty feet? That was nothing. Still, Kent learned to keep Val close so as not to alarm anybody, and they’d fit in pretty well right up until she settled.

So, yeah, between Val and his stunningly handsome features, Kent’s used to people looking at him. He’s _not_ used to people completely missing that his daemon is a fucking lion, but somehow most of his fellow rookies manage it.

Most of them. Jack Zimmermann looks completely unfazed, but then again it’s Jack Zimmermann. He probably grew up with most of the league’s biggest, baddest daemons traipsing through his living room. A lion isn’t going to surprise him.

Kent likes the look of his daemon, though—a sleek, dark wolf built along badass lines, nothing but muscle and pure grace. He can already tell she’ll be an asset on the ice. She’d laughed at him, too, so he knows Val automatically likes her as well. Zimmermann can’t be that much of an asshole, with a daemon like that.

 

___

 

Three weeks later, Kent has revised his opinion somewhat: Zimmermann _is_ an asshole, but he’s a hilarious one, so he’s cool.

(He’s also really fucking hot, but Kent’s trying his level best not to notice that, not that Val is helping. His daemon alternates between laughing at his plight and mooning over Isolde, the damn hypocrite.)

Jack is stand-offish at first, and Kent initially shared the team’s general opinion that it was because he thought he was too good to be hanging out with the likes of them. Not that it deterred Kent from bugging him anyway, because if there was anything Kent loved, it was a challenge.

But as he spends more and more time with the guy, Kent comes to the joint conclusions that:

1) His original opinion was completely, _totally_ off-base.

and

2) Jack Zimmermann is a huge, gigantic _dork_.

The guy is way more into history than anyone should be, seriously awkward when it comes to any interpersonal interactions not involving a hockey puck, and possesses a sense of humor that fuses dad jokes with absolutely deadpan sarcasm. This, unfortunately, means that most of the jokes the team makes go right over Jack’s head, and most of the jokes Jack makes go right over the team’s heads.

Thankfully, pranking is a language spoken by all teenage boys, so by the end of the first month, Kent has successfully used Jack’s unrelenting competitiveness to get him embroiled in the absolutely epic prank wars of Rimouski, which include such things as mop-and-trash-can-lid jousting, duffel bags full of whipped cream, sneakers full of fake maple syrup, and somebody pretending to be the IRS and calling Kent’s billet house nonstop at 2 a.m.

“Fuck you, Berger, like I wouldn’t recognize your shitty fake American accent,” Kent yells at practice the next day.

Berger laughs in reply, slapping Jack on the back beside him. “Blame this idiot for giving me the idea!”

Kent gasps, all outrage. “Et tu, Brute?”

Jack just grins at him, and it’s so—he’s just so— _ugh_.

It’s a good thing that Kent’s already fake-gasping, is what he’s saying.

From there, it’s easy to fold him into the team dynamics off the ice, so Jack’s no longer spending every party hugging the wall and nursing one (1) red plastic cup of beer the entire damn night.

In fact, Jack’s usually hanging out next to Kent instead, his arm draped loosely over Kent’s shoulder as he guffaws right in Kent’s ear like the most obnoxious of Canadian moose. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing than laughing at Kent’s ridiculous jokes, Isolde echoing his giggles as she circles both their feet, going around and around so that people watching can’t tell if she’s Kent’s or Jack’s.

And that’s not even counting what happens _on_ the ice—if you take whatever connection he and Jack share outside the rink and multiply it by about a hundred, then you get close to what happens whenever they play on the same line. It’s not often—Kent’s small even for a winger, and he’s fast, but not quite at the same level as the older boys, the guys with more experience, so he’s benched more than he’d like—but when he’s on the ice, he’s with Jack.

He’s _with_ Jack, in a way he can’t really explain, in a way that feels almost like magic, almost like whatever mysterious bond ties him to Val. It’s there in the early mornings, running drills with each other before anybody else gets to the rink, and it’s there in the late evenings, long after everyone leaves. It’s there amidst Val’s whoops and Isolde’s soft whispers, the only other sounds beyond their skates slicing the ice, beyond the thud of the puck hitting first Jack’s tape, then the corner of the net. It’s there during every practice, every scrimmage, every test of endurance they’re put through. It’s there during every heart-pounding, adrenaline-fueled minute they share during games, tearing down the ice like they’re unstoppable, with Isolde and Val keeping pace side by side, no other daemons even coming _close_ to touching them.

It’s there during every full-body celly, Kent screaming himself hoarse as he crashes into Jack, and everybody else crashes into them, the feeling of their daemons similarly dog-piling Val and Isolde going through him like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

Whatever it is, whatever anyone else wants to call it, it _works_. And in hockey, at this level? That’s all that matters.

 

___

 

It takes Kent a bit, but he finally settles on a nickname for Jack.

“Hey, Zimms, race ya!” he shouts, then takes off down the ice, laughing all the way.

“Damn it, Parse! It doesn’t count if you have an early start!” Jack bellows back, chasing after him anyway, Isolde a blur of black as she darts down the sidelines.

“Ha, you’re just upset ’cause there’s no way you’ll catch up with all that junk in your trunk!”

Jack doesn’t reply, but Isolde barks, putting on a burst of speed that puts her neck-and-neck with Kent, and Val cheers her on from where she’s lounging in the bleachers.

“Go, Izzy, go!” she yells.

“We win!” Isolde shouts, triumphant as she darts past the end-zone lines, Kent half a second behind her on the ice, and Jack a second behind him. “Did you see? We won!”

“You sure did, pretty girl,” Kent says, leaning against the boards to watch her as she prances back and forth, crouching down and then hopping up in her excitement. She stands up after a bit, leaning her front paws against the wall right beside Kent’s gloves, tail wagging, tongue lolling out, looking for all the world like a very large dog begging to be petted.

Kent resists the urge, though, since touching your bro’s daemon was _way_ past no homo territory. He counts himself lucky that Isolde even speaks to him—she’s shyer than Jack is, and rarely talks with the other daemons on the team, never mind the humans. She’s pretty physically affectionate, though, always cuddling up with Val and nudging the other daemons. She likes keeping an eye on them, tends to be a mother hen for all that she’s a wolf, helping to calm down Bammer’s deer daemon before games, or letting Zezzie’s Zyllena perch on her head in between shifts.

She’s a good daemon, all lethal speed and lithe grace when they’re at the rink, and nothing but sweet smiles and nerdy jokes outside of hockey. Kent can definitely tell that she’s Jack’s daemon, no problem.

Still, he worries for her a little. Isolde’s good any time they’re at practice or in the middle of a game, but during warm-ups or at house parties, there’s a sort of nervous energy to her. He’s never met a daemon as skittish as she is, one who’s either still as a stone statue or vibrating out of her skin with how antsy she is, no middle ground at all.

“Kenny,” Isolde says, mouth open in an affectionate grin, her blue eyes shining, “Kenny, let’s practice the no-look one-timer. C’mon, tell Jack, he’ll do it, we can do it, it’ll be fun—”

Kent laughs. “Okay, Izz,” he says, the affection welling up inside him and drowning out any of the worry, “whatever the winner wants.” He looks over at Jack. “You up for it, Zimms?”

Zimms taps his stick against the ice and leans on the handle, a lazy grin on his face, his stupid droopy eyes sparkling as he raises a brow, a move he _totally_ copied off of Kent. “Zimms? That’s really the best you could come up with?”

Kent shrugs. “Sounds good, right? Parse and Zimms, the dynamic duo taking the ice by storm—”

Jack snorts, not even letting him finish the sentence. “Switch the order and we’ll be good.”

“No way!” Val calls out. “Alphabetically, we come first!”

“Yeah, but in everything else, _we’re_ first,” Isolde chirps, then looks surprised by her own daring. “I mean! Not that you aren’t—you guys are also—I didn’t mean to say—!”

“Easy, Izzy,” Val says, jumping down to wrap herself around Jack’s daemon. She nuzzles her affectionately, tail lashing in contentment. “We know what you meant. We’re pretty awesome, too, which works out for you guys, ’cause we’re a team, right?”

Isolde immediately relaxes. “Right,” she says, relieved. Her tail wags once, twice. “We’re a team.”

Kent grins at her, wide and easy. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he reassures her. “The best team.”

Isolde and Jack beam at him with identical expressions, and Kent feels himself fall a little harder.

 _Great job, Parson_ , he tells himself after. _Only_ you _would manage to fall for your completely straight, completely oblivious liney._

 _But who wouldn’t fall for Jack?_ Val answers back, butting in like the manner-less busybody she is. _He and Isolde are amazing._

Well, duh. That’s the whole problem. There’s no way he and Val have the slightest chance in hell of getting them to like them back.

 

___ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	3. how could they hope to hide their hearts?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is aware that he’s being too obvious about his feelings about two seconds after he registers that he has them, mostly because Isolde is even worse at hiding her crush than he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Mild violence of the fist-fighting sort.

* * *

 

**_CH. 3: how could they hope to hide their hearts?_ **

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jack is aware that he’s being too obvious about his feelings about two seconds after he registers that he has them, mostly because Isolde is even worse at hiding her crush than he is.

The rumors about him and Kent won’t get spread amongst the general public until their second year in the Q, but they _start_ six months into their first, when Isolde becomes incapable of being in Valkyria’s vicinity without plastering herself to her side.

It’s not that Isolde doesn’t touch other daemons, of course—every hockey team Jack’s ever been on has been pretty tactile, and Rimouski is no exception. Isolde’s affectionate with a lot of the other guys’ daemons, Zyllena and Gilgara and Donatella in particular, but how she acts around Val is—is—

It’s too revealing, is what it is.

Jack watches her bury her snout in Valkyria’s golden fur and is reminded of nothing so much as Dianthe doing the same to Ciarán, a physical echo of the way his father would wrap himself around his mother.

Jack doesn’t do that to Parse, but Isolde can’t seem to follow his example of restraint. 

“You can’t keep doing this, Isolde,” Jack says sternly. “It’s not polite.”

Isolde shakes her head vigorously in denial, whining. “But Val doesn’t mind,” she protests.

“ _I_ mind,” Jack says, frowning. Jack can feel every point of awareness where Isolde and Valkyria are touching, heavy like a weight in the back of his mind, as reassuring and fierce and strong as Valkyria herself is. Kent never seems to notice the connection, but Jack can’t do anything _but_ feel it, knowing deep in his heart that that’s not even the worst of it.

Knowing that he’s woken up more than once from hazy dreams, heart pounding a mile a minute as he remembers breaking that worst of taboos and reaching for Valkyria _himself_ —imagining what it would feel like to slide his hands through dense, tawny fur. Picturing what it would be like to reach out and have her welcome his touch, Kent gasping in reaction as Jack lays hands on his daemon, on the piece of his soul given physical form.

Imagining what it would be like to touch _Kent_ , to have _Kent_ trembling beneath his fingers, his lips—

Jack sighs explosively, shaking his head to clear his thoughts and get back to the conversation at hand. “And don’t call her Val,” he adds. “She doesn’t like that.”

“She doesn’t like it when _other_ people do it,” Isolde says mutinously. “She likes it when _I_ do it. She even likes it when _you_ do it.”

“That’s not—it’s not—can you just not?” Jack says, well beyond exasperation and deep into frustration.

“But why?” Isolde bursts out, agitated. She circles in place, almost vibrating with the need to move. Any second now, she’s going to shift. “We’re friends, so it doesn’t matter—”

“Because I want to _stay_ friends, damn it!”

Isolde stares at him, her eyes huge in her face. “You don’t mean that,” she says, hushed.

 _“Isolde,”_ he hisses, edging towards the window of his room to check that his billet family’s minivan is still missing from the driveway, exhaling with relief when he sees it’s still gone and they’re the only ones in the house. “Shut _up_. We’re not talking about this—”

“But who else can I tell?” she says, her voice raw with anguish. “Who else can I talk to about this besides you?” She trembles for another second, then finally gives in and shifts, changing into a calico cat and darting beneath the bed.

“Izz,” Jack says, sighing as he gets on his knees to join her.

“Don’t call me that,” she answers, the hurt obvious in her voice. She’s curled up in the furthest corner, nothing but a tiny shadow with eyes that glint faintly as they catch the light. “I don’t want you using their name for me if you won’t even let me talk about how I feel about them.”

“It’s not _safe_ , Isolde,” Jack argues. “We can’t—it’s not going to do anyone any good if we act on these feelings.”

“I know that! But just because we’re not going to do anything about it doesn’t mean they aren’t there! I just want you to _acknowledge_ that I’m—”

_“Stop.”_

“—in love with Val,” Isolde persists stubbornly, “and that _you’re_ in love with Kent.”

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, feeling woozy even though he’s laying down flat on the floor of his bedroom and there’s no way the walls are _actually_ spinning.

“…Jack?” Isolde asks, and he feels her nose nudge his cheek. When he opens his eyes, she’s staring right at him, still in the form of a small, skinny cat.

“Isolde,” he says, helpless, “we _can’t_. He’s—they’re—they’re our only friends, sweetheart, we _can’t_ _.”_

Isolde mews, a sad, quiet sound. “I know,” she says, as miserable as he is. “I know they wouldn’t…”

Understand. Be friends with them anymore. _Love them back_.

There are a thousand ways to end that sentence, and none of them are good.

Jack picks up Isolde and holds her close to his chest. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “We’ll just—it’ll be fine. It’s good, what we have, isn’t it?”

Honestly, it’s more than good. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them, a collection of simple, easy moments that Jack treasures more than almost anything else:

Parse leaning against Jack’s locker at school, talking a mile a minute while Val naps in the middle of the hall and blocks traffic, glaring at anyone who gets too close so Jack can arrange his things without anyone jostling him.

Parse sliding into the passenger-side seat of his truck like he owns it, Val landing on the cargo bed with a heavy thump as Isolde leans up and presses her snout through the window to greet her.

Parse leaning sleepily against his side at 4 a.m., yawning so wide Jack could count all his teeth if he wanted, but still there anyway to practice because he wants to be the best as much as Jack does.

Parse’s laughter reverberating through him at parties, and feeling like he’s genuinely funny just because Parse couldn’t stop giggling because of one of _his_ jokes.

Isolde solemnly helping Parse pick which snapback to wear for the day.

Val using Jack’s duffel bag as her favorite pillow.

Parse serenading Isolde with Top 40 pop songs.

Jack reading poetry to Val for their literature class, watching Parse’s eyes change color when he says, “I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

Val beside Isolde between shifts on the ice, the two of them breathing in sync, Jack and Parse doing the same on the bench.

Parse meeting his eyes, rock-solid and steady, and _winking_ at him before he sends the pass, the puck hitting his tape, then Jack slamming it into the net—knowing, _knowing_ that he’ll make it.

Knowing that Parse will slam into him a second later, and Val will crash into Isolde, and for one blinding moment, they’ll have everything they ever wanted: hockey and Parse and Val, victory crushed between them all like the sweetest, most glorious high.

“It’s enough,” Jack tells Isolde. “Being a team with them—it’s enough.”

And he means it, mostly.

Isolde licks his cheek. “I know,” she tells him. “But I want more, sometimes—I can’t help it. I don’t _want_ to help it.” Then, quieter, “There’s already so much I have to ignore.”

Jack scratches her behind the ears, feeling her body tremble against him, small and vulnerable and so unlike the face she presents to the world. So unlike the form they both wish she could fit into like a hand to a glove, instead of salt to a wound.

Jack wishes she’d been linked to someone better than him—a human who could give her everything she deserved instead of a disaster who can’t even bring himself to acknowledge his own feelings, let alone hers.

Jack sighs. He can’t do anything about their bond, but he can be better about that last bit.

“You can tell me about it,” Jack says, smoothing down her fur with the palm of his hand. “About—Val. And, you know.” He takes a deep breath. “What you like about her. And stuff.”

Isolde looks up at him, and he can tell that she’s trying not to laugh. “Are you sure? I like a lot of things about her.”

Jack is suddenly reminded of the hundred-items-and-counting list he’s making about Parse, and blushes. “No,” he says, “I know.” And, “It’s okay.”

Isolde hops out of his arms and turns around in a circle. By the time she finishes her fourth rotation, she’s back to being a wolf. She leans her head on Jack’s knee and starts, “Do you know how Val’s eyes change color depending on the sunlight—”

Jack leans against the bed, buries his hand in her fur, and listens.

 

___

 

Everything is—well. Not ‘fine,’ because ‘fine’ is a word that can’t accurately encompass the seething frustration following a loss, the anger and anxiety fighting within him until it feels like his ears are ringing from the force of his emotions. ‘Fine’ doesn’t describe the state of calm that takes over him on Wednesday afternoons when he highlights his notes—yellow for dates, blue for vocabulary words, green for significant people and places—an understandable, carefully managed system all within his control. ‘Fine’ doesn’t describe the joy of making the game-winning goal, the whole goddamn arena shouting ‘Zimmermann!’ and meaning _him_. ‘Fine’ doesn’t cover the sense of peace that seeps into him when they’re traveling on a roadie, and he and Isolde fall asleep to the sound of Kenny and Val breathing in the other bed.

It’s…manageable, is what it is.

And then suddenly it’s not.

It changes during a game against the Ramparts. They’re up by two at the end of the second period, but Bammer gets injured and is out of commission for the rest of the game, and looking pissed about it, too; the Ramparts haven’t let up at all, and it doesn’t exactly look good for them.

“Alright, boys, it’s not over ‘til it’s over,” Coach says during a time-out, then he proceeds to rattle off the rest of their strategy, telling them which plays they have to run and which defensemen he wants them to look out for, his coyote daemon sitting quiet at his feet. At the end of the time-out, he slides his eyes over at Parse.

“Parson,” he says, tilting his head at the boards, “you’re in for Deveraux.”

Parse grins, sudden and glorious, the sight of it accompanied by Val’s low, pleased growl. This’ll be the first time he’s played this game, having been held in reserve, but he’s a good choice to replace Bammer—the coaches are betting that his hands are quick enough to steal the puck, easy as anything, and that he’s fast enough to make it on the breakaway. Then he’ll get the puck to Jack, and Jack will score. That particular combination of events is getting to be enough of a given during practice that Jack’s sure that Parse will start being a regular any day now.

Jack bumps his shoulder companionably when Parse comes and sits next to him, face serious though his eyes are still shining, and in the next moment they’re over the boards.

The rest of the period goes as expected—within five minutes, Parse steals the puck, and then he’s tearing down the ice, Jack already ahead of him, both of them heading for the net on parallel lines. Val is keeping pace on the sidelines, using her bulk to knock aside the other team’s daemons to open up space for Isolde to dart through. Jack feels the tug between him and Isolde like an ache as she speeds up and pulls ahead, trusting him to stay on her heels as Val turns around and growls at the opposing defensemen’s daemons, acting as a wall to keep them away and prevent their humans from chasing Jack.

Parse keeps going, unhindered by the distance as the gap between him and Val stretches second by second—ten feet—fifteen—twenty—and Jack would laugh if he had the breath for it, to see him going for the kill without a second thought.

Parse sends the goalie lunging towards the left corner with a beautiful fake-out, then slams a shot toward the lower right. The puck doesn’t go in, rebounding off the goalposts, but it doesn’t matter: Jack is there.

Jack gets the puck. He takes the shot. He makes it in.

Not even the entire arena shouting could drown out Val’s roar of victory, Isolde’s answering howl.

The score’s 5-2 in their favor, and the coaches keep Parse on his line at the start of the third period. Jack isn’t that worried, a three-goal lead being enough to reassure him that, as long as they play their usual game, Rimouski’s going to win.

Parse sends him a pass, and Jack skates down the ice without bothering to glance back, trusting Parse to follow him the way he trusts the sun to rise in the east—

—and then, behind him, Valkyria _shrieks_ , the sound ripping across the arena, a bellow of pain and agony.

When Jack turns around, Parse is crumpled on the ice, a defenseman standing over him, and Jack—

He stops, and he can feel his pulse beating in his throat but he can’t hear it, can’t hear anything at all, like someone’s trapped him in a bell jar and cut off all sound, can’t even hear Val anymore, even though she must still be screaming, must be still awake, she _has_ to be awake, because if she’s not then it means that Parse isn’t, that Parse is—is—

Something _rips_ inside of Jack, and the next thing he knows, the sound comes rushing back in, the silence shattered by Isolde’s roar as she shifts into a grizzly bear in front of the entire fucking stadium—and proceeds to slam the lynx daemon standing over Val into the boards.

The daemon’s human goes down, too, and now there are two unconscious hockey players on the ice, but hardly anyone’s looking at them.

Instead, they’re all looking at Isolde, who places her huge body protectively over Val and refuses to move an inch, not until Jack skates over and asks her to.

She doesn’t follow when they haul Val onto a stretcher and take her down the hall, even though she wants to, even though she takes five steps down and looks like she’ll fight if they try to stop her.

“Isolde,” Jack says, and she makes a wounded noise, like _she’s_ the one who was left bleeding on the floor, but she stops. She listens.

She turns around, and by the time she reaches Jack’s hand, she’s a wolf again, black and sleek and dangerous, not a trace of that seething, volatile rage left in her narrow frame.

They go back, and they play their game, and when they win, Jack and Isolde are the first ones off the ice.

 

___

 

When Jack sees Kent laid out on the cot, small and still and more quiet than he’s ever seen him before, he can feel Isolde shudder and shake, feel her fight the urge to shift into something just as small and quiet, something that would let her curl up on Parse’s chest just so they can feel his heartbeat. Just so they can feel him breathing, and reassure themselves that he’s fine.

Val is on the floor next to him, equally unconscious, and before their trainer even gives them the okay, Isolde is lying down beside her, her head placed protectively over the vulnerable slump of Val’s neck.

“How bad is it?” Jack demands, his voice tight with the strain required to keep from shouting. He doesn’t take his eyes off Kent. “Is he going to be okay?”

The trainer nods. “Don’t worry about it, Zimmermann,” he says, clapping a paternal hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Parser’s gonna be just fine—only took a small bump to the head, not even a concussion. It’s not that bad.”

It didn’t _look_ like it was ‘not that bad’ on the ice, but Jack nods and accepts his words. The rest of the team is piling in behind him, making the same worried inquiries, the room starting to fill up with the jumble of voices and the movement of two dozen teenage boys still jittering with adrenaline.

The flurry of post-game activity contrasts with Kent’s still form, and Jack feels his stomach twist. He should be awake, elbowing Jack aside and chattering a mile a minute as he goes over the game, talking up his assist like it was the highlight of the evening, Val chiming in every now and then in her dry monotone. Isolde should be unsubtly grooming her, working the knots out of her fur in the way that relaxes the both of them. Jack should be letting Kent push him around, pretending to hold out as Kent whines that he can’t let him go to the party by _himself_ , that’s gonna be so _boring_ , Zimms, c’mon—

Instead, he showers and packs his things in silence, feeling the weight of his teammates’ stares as they glance between him and Isolde.

He’s trying not to think about it—the fact that everybody knows now, knows that he’s a hack, a fake, nothing but a wannabe pretending he’s got what it takes to make it in the Show—

—but any attempts to think of something else make him think of Parse instead, and how this would be so much _easier_ if he were awake and distracting everyone from the elephant in the room—

—which makes Jack feel even guiltier—for God’s sake, Parse is fucking _unconscious_ , and all Jack’s doing is agonizing over what an inconvenience it is for himself, what the fucking hell is _wrong_ with him—

—shit, fuck, he can hear his breathing going shallow, fuck, where are his pills—

Across the room, Isolde’s synchronized trembling goes still as a hand lands heavy on her head.

Jack’s breath catches in his throat. He knows that touch, knows it like the back of his own hand, but he’s never felt it like this, never felt it through Isolde’s livewire senses.

 _More_ , one of them thinks, and Jack doesn’t know if it’s him or Isolde. Maybe it’s both; maybe it doesn’t matter.

“Sweetheart,” Kent mumbles, still half-asleep, Jack hearing his voice only through Isolde’s finely tuned ears, “you okay?” He digs his fingers in, clumsy, and Isolde leans into the touch.

“Yes,” she whispers, lying.

“Mmkay,” he replies, and his fingers loosen, go slack, as his hand falls out of her fur.

Isolde buries her face against Val’s comforting bulk, and Jack starts moving again, the entire interaction having gone unnoticed by the rest of the room.

It happened, though. Jack knows it did, Jack can feel it in his bones like an ache, swears he can still feel the phantom touch of Kent’s fingers sliding through his and Isolde’s shared soul.

Jack moves to pack up his gear; the ache beneath his heart worsens as the cord between him and Isolde pulls taut. But Jack doesn’t call her to come, and Isolde doesn’t leave her spot sandwiched between Val and the bed, Kent’s dangling hand ever-so-slightly brushing over her head.     

 

___

 

Two days later, when they’re in his truck after the most awkward practice ever—the coaches and the rest of the staff were _not_ happy to discover that Jack’s daemon could potentially settle as a fucking chipmunk at any second, to say the least—Parse says, “So, uh—so you two haven’t settled yet?” His knee jiggles restlessly as he fiddles with the zipper of his sweater, and his eyes dart everywhere but at Jack and Isolde.

“Yeah,” Jack says, then there’s a long stretch of silence as Parse waits for him to add something else.

Jack doesn’t take the bait.

“Okay,” Parse says eventually, a wrinkle of wounded hurt in his voice before he smoothens it out, “okay, that’s—we could work with this, sure, we can—”

“There’s no ‘we’ about this, Parse,” Jack bites out.

Parse barely has any time to go pale before Val’s low growl sounds behind them. “Hey,” she says heatedly, sticking her head in through the back window, “you don’t get to kick us off your team, that’s not—it’s not your fucking call. You think Kent and I aren’t in it for the long haul? Fuck you, Zimmermann—it’s people like _us_ who stick around. _We_ aren’t going _anywhere_.”

Jack and Isolde stare at her, both of them wide-eyed. She bares her teeth a little and glares back, ferocious in her loyalty, and Jack feels something curl warm fingers in his stomach.

“Uh—yeah,” Parse says, closing his slack-jawed mouth shut. “What she said.”

Jack leans forward and laughs until he tears up.

 

___

 

“I mean it, though,” Parse says later, when they’re ensconced in their designated booth at their favorite diner. Parse is pushing around his waffles with his fork, Isolde sitting by his feet, though she’s careful not to touch him—neither she nor Jack have mentioned Parse touching her when he was half-conscious, and they’re not planning to, either. It’s better that he doesn’t remember. Val’s prowling around outside, getting some air, but Jack doesn’t doubt that she’s tuning in, too. “We could use this to our advantage.”

Jack looks at him incredulously. “And how exactly is there anything advantageous about this?”

Parse grins at him, impish and sly. “C’mon, Zimms, you honestly think the opposition wouldn’t be pissing their pants if Izzy shifted into a—a—” He waves his hand carelessly, shrugging, and Jack has to tear his eyes away from the arc of his fingers, the fluid motion of his shoulders. “—I don’t know, a polar bear or something, and just charged right at them? Hell, she could even change into something small and fast and dart through their defenses if they dedicate enough people to block her off. The possibilities are endless.”

Jack bites his lip, feeling Isolde shift restlessly out of sight. “I don’t know—isn’t that cheating?”

Parse rolls his eyes. “Like they say that when late bloomers in bantam do it.”

Jack clenches his jaw. “We’re not in bantam anymore,” he points out. _I shouldn’t be a late bloomer at all_ , he doesn’t say. Late bloomers were—volatile. Unpredictable. A risk this late in the game, when strategies were built on knowing what assets you had and what weaknesses you had to cover. Daemons who shifted had an infinite amount of advantages, but that came with a corresponding, equally infinite amount of drawbacks.

Jack knows teams much prefer a known variable; he and Isolde won’t be anything other than a liability.

Parse blows out a breath. “Look, man, I don’t know what to tell you. Do they fucking wish Isolde was safely settled as a wolf? Hell, yeah. Is that what you can give them? Hell, no. Can you do anything about that until she settles?” He raises a brow expectantly, jiggling his knee against Jack’s, and Jack has to dial down the urge to smack him.

“No,” Jack grumbles, when it’s clear that Kent won’t say anything more until he contributes to the conversation.

“There we go,” Kent says. “So, like I said, you might as well do what you want until then. They can’t actually penalize you for having a daemon who shifts—I checked the official rules and everything.”

“I knew that already, thanks.” Jack tears what’s left of his croissant into tinier shreds. “I just—” He sighs. “I wish this wasn’t an issue.”  

Kent watches him, his face set in that impassive mask of his, the one that hides everything he’s thinking, his mouth unsmiling and his eyes steady and cool. “It’s not, Jack,” he says, quiet. “It’s just who you are. There’s no issue with that.”

Jack doesn’t tell him that who he is as a person is basically nothing _but_ a collection of issues, held together by tenacity, anxiety meds, and hockey. He just drops his eyes and drums his fingers on the laminated tabletop.

“Thank you, Kent,” Isolde says for him instead. “We know you mean it.”

Kent laughs. “No probs, Izzy,” he says, smiling down at where she’s peeking her head up onto the blue vinyl seat. He stretches out his arm, like he’s going to pet her, and Jack’s heart stops in his chest—

—but, no, he’s just leaning his arm on the back of the seat.

Ah. Right. He wouldn’t do that.

Jack takes his disappointment and crushes it until it’s nothing but a longing ache, and watches as his daemon and his best friend banter, telling himself that this is more than enough.

 

___

 

The thing is—Kent turns out to be right. Jack is loath to admit it, since he doesn’t need a bigger head than he’s already got, but the rest of the season goes astonishingly well when he and Isolde stop resisting so hard and let her shift into whatever shape is most comfortable.

She still wears her wolf form most often, starting and ending games in the body that she and Jack have carefully constructed as their public face, but during games?

All bets are off.

Sometimes she’s a hawk, flying with swift precision over the heads of their opponents. Sometimes she’s a buffalo, blocking the way so Bammer’s Gilgara can plow through. Sometimes she’s a rattlesnake, sliding her way past paws and hooves like they aren’t even there. Sometimes she’s a badger, claws digging into fur and slashing in tandem as Jack gets into fights on ice.

Sometimes—just sometimes—she’s a lioness, too, and she and Val are matching deadly, golden blurs as they rampage beside the ice, victory carried on their capable shoulders.

Jack and Isolde win, and they win, and they win, and they win, and the coaches stop looking at them like a time bomb and start using them like a hand grenade, thrown with precise accuracy to cause maximum damage.

“Boom, baby!” Parse yells as they slam together after Jack’s fiftieth goal that season, his voice echoed by Val’s roar and Isolde’s piercing shriek as she flaps her wings atop her head.

Jack thinks it’s an accurate sentiment.

 

___

 

The season ends with them making it to the Memorial Cup finals—and losing to the Chiefs.

“At least we didn’t get our asses handed to us like the Bulls did,” Delgado says wearily on the bus ride back.

Jack registers the words first, then registers his rage. He’s standing on his feet before he even knows it, blood pulsing in his ears, hands clenched into fists, his voice a howl waiting tucked behind his teeth—

But Isolde is already there, diving straight for Tamsin with a furious snarl, relentless as she attacks the other wolf. They’re a blur of fangs and fur, the edges of the fight blurring as Isolde shifts and shifts to gain the advantage, heedless of their other teammates yelling, the coaches shouting for order as Delgado and Jack echo their daemons and start fighting, too.

Jack has the advantage of height and weight and sheer, brutal anger, and he brings Delgado down onto the narrow aisle of the bus, the two of them jolting from the impact, and he rears his fist back, intending to punch, and punch, and punch—

“Jack!” Kent yells, and Jack can only gasp as he’s pulled bodily back, the collar of his shirt tightening around his neck. He flails, caught off balance, and lands on something warm and living.

The rest of the bus goes immediately quiet, and Jack sees his teammates faces blanch, their bodies recoiling automatically.

“Jack,” Valkyria says beneath him, snout pinned by his shoulders, her fur startlingly rough against the hand he has braced against her side, and everyone is staring at her, at them, at the way Kent is gasping, wide-eyed, trembling fingers pressed over his throat, his heart.

 _Shit_ _._

Jack scrambles up. “Sorry,” he says tersely. “Sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” He runs a hand over his face, shoulders tense, back ramrod straight.

“It’s fine, man,” Kent says, a reassuring smile pulled hastily onto his face, but Jack can see where the corners of it crumple. “Val probably shouldn’t have pulled you off. We started it.”

 _“He_ started it,” Delgado says, disbelieving, and Jack’s anger is reignited for a hot, acrid burst before he tamps it down.

“You weren’t helping,” Kent answers, glaring over his shoulder. “What the hell were you saying, you saying you’re _happy_ we’re the fu—fricking runner-ups?”

“It’s better than nothing!” Delgado yells back, Tamsin growling beside him.

“We still _lost!”_ Isolde screams, louder than Jack’s ever heard her, and the whole bus goes silent for the second time in as many minutes.

“We still lost,” Isolde repeats, quieter the second time, but no less fervent, her eyes huge in her face, her form wavering slightly in her agitation, the outer tips of her looking like wisps of smoke as she fights to hold it.

Val takes a step forward, and Isolde hesitates for a moment before diving towards her, pushing carelessly past Jack’s legs.

Jack can feel tears of frustration pricking at his eyes, and he swipes a hand over his face, grimacing afterwards to keep them at bay. Anger’s so much better than this pit of hopelessness and despair, so much more acceptable to display than anything even close to this type of weakness, but he’s sixteen years old and it feels like his emotions are lines of fire beneath his skin and he can’t _help_ it, his pills are in his bag and he can’t fucking pull them out in front of everyone—

In the corner of his eye, Zyllena hovers by Zezzie for a few seconds before landing on his shoulder and hiding herself under his chin, a small, broken chirp coming out of her, the sound of distress quickly echoed by the other daemons on the bus.

Isolde answers with her own low keen, Val with a rasping sob, and with that, the whole bus is a maelstrom of crying daemons, their humans settling back down to comfort them, or letting their daemons comfort each other, the earlier fight forgotten.

It’s not okay for guys to show how they feel, but everybody knows you can’t leave your daemon sad. This is fine. This is acceptable.

Jack buries his face against Kent’s shoulder and lets himself breathe, and at their feet, he feels Isolde curls herself around Val’s steady form and do the same.

 

___

 

Way back in April, Jack had invited Kent home for the summer, hands clammy with sweat on his PS3 game controller, eyes trained resolutely on their current game of Super Mario Kart. Kent had said yes, a wide, upside-down grin on his face as he dangled off the edge of the couch in Jack’s billet family’s rec room. They’ll be heading up to Montréal in late July, staying long enough to celebrate Jack’s birthday before Kent heads back to Ithaca for the rest of the summer.

Jack gets invited to Kent’s place, too, Kent avoiding his eyes and scratching sheepishly at the back of his head when he asks.

“You don’t have to come, man,” he says. “My ma just tore into me when I told her I was gonna spend some time with you, called me rude and ungrateful and a whole bunch of other untrue things just ’cause _you_ invited me _first_ , like, I was always gonna invite you over, too, _duh_. I don’t expect you to come, though, ’cause you’ve gotta be super busy and things, so—”

“I’ll come,” Jack said, and it would’ve been worth it just to see the look of surprised wonder on Kent’s face.

So here he is, on the steps of a rundown apartment building, squinting at the numbers next to the intercom at the entrance gate, trying to figure out which one is Kent’s. It’d help if half the names weren’t faded beyond recognition, and the other half weren’t illegible from water stains. Isolde is sitting patiently beside him, ignoring the curious eyes of the neighborhood cats. There’s a duffel bag on his other side; he managed to convince his mother that the matching set of luggage was unnecessary, and it should be—he’s only staying for five days. Besides, from what he’s heard, Kent’s place isn’t that big, and there’s no need to take up unnecessary space if he can help it. He’s already being enough of an imposition as it is.

He shifts from foot to foot, slightly nervous. This is the first time he’s ever been invited to anyone’s house in all his almost-seventeen years of life, and he doesn’t quite know what the protocol is.

“Zimms!” a voice yells out, and Jack looks up to see Kent grinning down at him from one of the balconies above him. He waves at him, then disappears before Jack can finish lifting his hand to wave back.

Jack lowers his hand, frowning when Isolde chuckles quietly in response. “What?” he grumbles.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s just good to see him again.”

That’s true enough, so Jack doesn’t argue, only waits for Kent to fling the door open before throwing himself at him for a full-body hug.

“Zimms! Missed you, man!” Kent says, and Jack’s eyes can’t see anything but the riot of his curls, can’t smell anything but the crisp musk of his cologne, can’t feel anything but Kent’s body, solid and warm in his arms.

“Yeah,” Jack says, muffled against his temple, “missed you, too.”

 

___

 

Karen Parson is a no-nonsense sort of woman, a nurse practitioner who works long hours at the hospital and wears her shoulder-length hair tied back in ponytails or up in messy buns, comfy sneakers on her feet and always dressed in either scrubs or sweats. She’s a far cry from Jack’s own mother, who never leaves the house without a face full of make-up and outfits carefully tailored to look just the right side of fashionably casual if she’s tailed by any paparazzi, a ready smile on her face at all times. Karen, on the other hand, has dark circles under her eyes, and crow’s feet at the corners, with laugh lines prominent by the sides of her mouth. She’s also responsible for Kent’s coloring, if her changeable irises, blond curls, and tanned, freckled skin are any indication.

Jack looks at her and can’t help but think that Kent will look a lot like her in twenty-five years.

Karen Parson’s Alfvandr is a medium-sized crow, most often seen perched on her right shoulder. Jack hasn’t heard him speak yet, but Isolde assures him that he’s very friendly and helpful, with a wry, dry wit that obviously shaped Val’s own sense of humor. Jack’s seen him grooming Val or fussing over Carrie’s Fortindair often enough to know that he’s as parental as any other mother’s daemon.

Carrie Parson is twelve years old, and Jack’s first impression of her was that she was a quiet, shy girl not given much to talking, rather more concerned with her summer reading or her sketchbooks than anything else. This impression, he soon finds out, is somewhat misleading—yes, she’s a little shy around strangers. Yes, she takes her homework very seriously. No, she’s not quiet at all, actually, and as soon as she gets over her initial wariness of Jack, she’s chatting at him as easily as she makes fun of her big brother.

Jack is an only child, and never had much opportunity to observe siblings in close quarters when he was growing up, so watching Kent and Carrie is an education, to say the least. They fight a lot, over things that frankly baffle Jack and Isolde—things like what the best cereal is (Kent says Oreo O’s, Carrie is for Frosted Flakes), who the best pop star is (Kent says Britney Spears, Carrie says…somebody whose name is a color. Purple, maybe?), who forgot to lock the door when they left (Kent says Carrie, Carrie says Kent), whose turn it is to have the remote control (Kent says Kent, Carrie says Carrie), who gets to order in take-out (Kent says Kent, Carrie says Carrie, and their mom vetoed both and said Jack could order), etc., etc.

It doesn’t seem serious, though, even though their arguments can get pretty loud. Val and Fortindair don’t get physical except to poke each other during their fights, and neither Kent nor Carrie are ever tense or anxious when they finish raising their voices at each other. Kent obviously worships the ground his little sister walks on—Jack’s known that for as long as he’s known him, and this impression hasn’t changed. Carrie, for her part, seems to do the same—half the time, she’s sharing embarrassing stories with Jack, but the other half, she’s talking about the time Kent carried her home when she twisted her ankle, or acted as her back-up singer for her second grade talent show, or helped stick glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling for her so she wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.

Carrie and Kent just…seem to be the type to express their affection through bickering, is what Jack supposes.

It’s nice, is what it is.

 

___

 

Carrie’s Fortindair settled as a golden eagle sometime in May, which makes sense since they’re already twelve. It’s the right age for it. Most people don’t get beyond fourteen without settling.

(Jack felt relieved that nobody’s brought up Isolde and the obvious elephant in the room—they’re careful not to shift outside of the Parsons’ apartment, but Isolde slips up sometimes when she’s around Val. Intellectually, Jack knew that neither Karen nor Carrie were likely to make a big deal over it, but he still felt something in him loosen when Carrie didn’t bat an eye to find Isolde mimicking Purrs, holding a Maine Coon’s shape as she wound herself needily around Val’s legs.)

Kent and Val missed both their settling and the subsequent party they threw for it, since Rimouski made it to the Mem Cup finals, and Jack knows that that ate at him a little.

“Never really missed any of their milestones before, you know?” he’d said, sprawled listlessly across Jack’s bed, his face half-buried against the pillow. “It’s just—” He’d cut himself off, sighing. “How many more am I gonna miss, you know? If…”

If he made it in the NHL like he wanted. Like he was honestly likely to, considering how good he’d been getting, considering what an asset Valkyria was as a daemon.

Jack had stayed quiet, not sure what to say. He’d never had to consider the effects of his hockey on anybody beyond himself and Isolde. Even leaving his parents—well, his father had understood, of course. And his mother had just asked him if this was what would make him happy. He’d nodded, unable to explain that it wasn’t so much that playing hockey professionally made him happy so much as _not_ having hockey was guaranteed to make him _unhappy_.

He loves the sport, the game, the challenge. He doesn’t love the pressure, the expectations, the legacy to live up to—but you take the good with the bad, so Jack never hesitated to accept the latter because of the former.

Kent was different, though—Kent had a whole family, a whole life outside of hockey, as mind-boggling as that was to Jack at first, and if he continues down this path, he’s only going to have to sacrifice more and more.

 _He’ll stay with us, though_ , Isolde thought quietly. _If he stays in hockey, he’ll stay with us._

Part of Jack had recoiled from the thought, appalled at the sheer selfishness of it. The rest of him, however, had just grasped onto it with greedy hands, thinking, _Yes._

If Kent and Val stayed in hockey, they’d stay with them.

 

___

 

Well. At least until the draft.

 

___

 

The realization comes to Jack stupidly late, in all honesty.

It comes as he’s washing dishes while Kent ostensibly dries them, though really it’s more like Kent talks while pretending to dry the same mug for ten minutes—

Kent is good enough to get drafted in the first round.

Jack is going to go first (anything else is unacceptable, unthinkable).

Ergo, Jack and Kent are going to be on different teams. For all Jack knows, he could be stuck in Seattle with Kent all the way in Nashville, and neither of them would be able to do a damn thing about it.

 _Fuck_ , Jack thinks, setting the casserole dish down with a clack.

Kent pauses in his monologue about the merits of some animated t.v. show—Sponge Bob Rectangle?—to glance at him. “You okay, bro?” he asks.

Jack nods mechanically, picking the sponge back up. “Yeah,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kent squints at him suspiciously, but he lets it go.

Jack doesn’t, though, worrying over the thought over and over and over for the rest of the evening, until the realization seems guaranteed to be a permanent addition to his nightly rundowns of everything that could and would possibly go wrong.

It feels like a train approaching from a distance, with his body lashed down on the tracks, immobilized, to know that someday soon, Kent won’t be here beside him.

 

___

 

Funny, isn’t it? How Jack hadn’t been able to comfort Kent all those months ago, because he honestly hadn’t any point of reference, any personal advice to offer, because he didn’t know what it would be like to regret missing milestones, to miss _being there_ for somebody. To dread knowing that the cost of your own success is the loss of closeness to somebody else, somebody infinitely precious and adored and _loved_ —

—he wouldn’t have known before Kent.

But now he does.

“It’s going to be like a severing,” Isolde tells him, already aching from the anticipated loss. And Jack—

Jack knows that it’s an exaggeration, that losing Kent wouldn’t be anything at all like being severed from Isolde—

—except there’s part of him that thinks that maybe it would be. That thinks that being a thousand miles from Kent _would_ carry a physical toll, that thinks that there’s _no way_ being that far from him wouldn’t _ache_ , wouldn’t _burn_ , in the same way it burns to be apart from Isolde, both of their souls longing for the other.

“It won’t,” Jack says to Isolde instead of saying any of that, but she doesn’t look convinced. Still, she lets it go, doesn’t bring it up again the whole time that they’re there.

Jack breathes a sigh of relief and goes back to pretending that separation is a thing that won’t ever be relevant to the story of him and Parse, and Isolde—well, she does the same.

(Don’t ever let it be said that denial isn’t their joint strong suit.)

 

___

 

There are a series of pictures on the walls of Kent’s apartment, chronicling the Parson family’s doings from the ’80s onward, it seems like. There are plenty of photographs of Kent and Carrie as incredibly photogenic babies, then toddlers, then gap-toothed kids, but there are also a whole bunch of family photos that include their parents.

The oldest photo appears to be a Polaroid taken some time in 1987, according to the date at the bottom. It’s of two twenty-somethings at a diner, both of them blond and smiling at the camera with the biggest grins Jack’s ever seen. One of them is recognizably Karen, just two decades younger, Alfvandr perched on her shoulder and resting his beak in her long, sunny hair. She could be either of her children’s sister in that photo.

The other person is a man with Kent’s cowlick and Carrie’s chin and their exact same nose, and he’s got his arm resting along the back of the diner booth bench the same way Kent does with Jack. He’s got a fox next to him, bright-eyed and beautiful, slightly blurred because she was moving when the camera took the shot.

Karen catches him once looking just a little too long. “That’s Connor and Nym,” she tells him.

“Ah,” he says, flushing guiltily, meaning to apologize, but she just shakes her head, smiling.

“What’s the point of putting the pictures up if you don’t want people to see?” she says, leaning against the couch and crossing her arms. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he was never here. I don’t mind talking about him.”

“Oh,” Jack says, feeling awkward. Isolde shifts restlessly at his feet, equally discomfited.

Karen quirks her mouth in a smile, but she doesn’t call them out on their emotional clumsiness. “Would you believe that was our first official date?” she says instead.

Jack blinks, surprised, and shakes his head with an honest, “No.”

“Yeah—funny, isn’t it? I’d known him for years at that point, but I’d never thought of him that way.” She shakes her head, biting the bottom corner of her smile in a way that reminds Jack so strongly of Kent that his heart squeezes a little. “He asked me out one day, and said that if he didn’t make me laugh more than anybody else for a whole week straight, he’d never ask me again.”

“So you said yes?”

“I told him yes, and he proceeded to make an idiot of himself for the next seven days just to keep his side of the bargain,” she answers, her eyes soft and far away.

“That was cheating anyway,” Alfvandr notes, speaking for the first time in Jack’s hearing. He has a surprisingly deep voice, calmer and firmer than Jack was expecting. “He had Nym on his side, and everybody knew she was always the funniest person in the room.”

Karen nods. “True enough,” she says, agreeing. “Alfvandr and I always thought Kent would take after him. We have pictures of Nym and Val as matching foxes from when he was younger.”    

“So lions don’t run in your family?” Jack queries.

Karen laughs. “God, no! Not in Connor’s either. Every last one of them were foxes and hares—anything fast and clever. Carrie takes after my side, though. As long as it’s a bird, it’s not a surprise, and we’ve had a few eagles before.”

“There was a period in time when Val decided she wanted to be a bald eagle,” Alfvandr contributes dryly, and Jack snorts before he can help himself. “Ridiculous, we know.”

“But that’s our Kenny,” Karen says lightly, and she nudges Jack’s shoulder with her own as she walks away, and Jack ignores the warmth in his belly to hear her say the word ‘our,’ and know that she’s extending it to include him as well.

 

___

 

Kent takes him to the rink where he first learned to skate. There, Val is almost too big for the designated sidelines, the narrow walls barely giving her any space to move, but the two of them navigate the space without a word of complaint, instinctively accommodating to the limited room with the ease of long familiarity.

“I know it’s not the fanciest place,” Kent says with a shrug, “but, hey, it’s home.”

“I get that,” Jack says, and he and Isolde watch Val and Kent do their warm-up laps with focused eyes, never once looking away, committing the sight of the love of their lives completely in their element to memory.

 

___

 

Five days pass in the blink of an eye, and before he knows it, there’s a cab idling on the curb, waiting to take him to the airport, his duffel bag at his feet and two new numbers and a whole slew of candids on his phone.

“See you in a few weeks,” Kent says, hugging him so tightly that Jack can barely breathe.

Jack doesn’t complain, because it’d make him a hypocrite with the way he’s hugging Kenny back just as fiercely.

“Yeah,” he says.

“I’ll be there before you know it,” Kent promises, and Jack clings to his words in the same way Isolde clings to Val, the two of them wound so tightly around each other that the only way he can tell them apart is the contrast of black fur against gold.

The cab driver taps lightly at his horn, startling Jack and Kent, who both jerk back from each other.

“Uh. I gotta go,” Jack says inanely.

“Yeah, man,” Kent says, nodding quickly, a flush staining the tops of his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, his hands hastily tucked into the front pocket of his oversized hoodie. “C’mon, Val, they’re heading out.”

Val doesn’t move an inch, and neither does Isolde. Jack has to grab his daemon around her waist, and Kent has to pull his by the ruff of her collar, just to pry them away from each other.

(When they pull their daemons apart, Jack and Kent’s hands nearly touch, that’s how close they were.)

 

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	4. his love is no tamed lion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Consenting sex takes place between two seventeen-year-olds, which is above the age of consent in Canada, the country the activities take place in, but I wanted to warn just in case. Also...I didn't tag bestiality for this fic, because that definitely doesn't happen, but there _is_ touching between daemons, and the daemons are affected by their humans having sex. So if that's something that squicks you, please skip the section that starts, "Things come to a head two days later."

* * *

 

**_CH. 4: his love is no tamed lion_ **

 

* * *

 

 

 

So, it’s not like Kent doesn’t know that Jack is the son of a movie star and an NHL Hall of Famer. It’s just that the majority of the time, he’s seen him in his natural element, which is either the hockey rink, the comfortably lived in rec rooms of their billet houses, or that one used bookstore that Jack’s always claiming has the best biographies or something.

The point is, the first time he sees the Zimmermanns’ neighborhood, he kind of has to stand there in open-mouthed shock for a minute or two.

“Um,” he asks his mom’s co-worker’s brother who happened to live in Montréal, and was conveniently able to drive him from the bus stop in exchange for her taking an extra shift, “are you sure this is the right place?”

Ben snorts, the sound echoed by his stoat daemon, who’s looped around his throat like a fashionable scarf. “Uh, according to the GPS, it is. Unless you gave me the wrong address?”

Kent shakes his head mutely, still staring at the wrought-iron gates barring the way to a road that looks so fucking picturesque it could have come straight out of one of Carrie’s favorite costume dramas or something, with ridiculously green lawns and tree-lined drives and the most meticulously manicured flower beds he’s ever seen. Like, he expected there to be birds singing and bees buzzing and sunshine streaming at all hours, no joke. He couldn’t see litter _anywhere_. It’s about as far from his neighborhood as you can get.

Kent swallows nervously, his hand clenching in Val’s fur. He gets his bags and hauls them over his shoulder, waving goodbye to Ben and making his way towards the white and blue cottage-kiosk thing where the security guard is, feeling unsure about this whole visit for the first time ever. Spending time with Zimms? Awesome. Getting to talk with Bad Bob one on one? Super awesome. Hanging out in the same house as Alicia Zimmermann of _Boudicca: the Warrior Queen_ fame? _Stratospherically fucking awesome._

Being the charity case friend from the wrong side of the tracks? Not so awesome.

“Hey,” he says as he approaches the security guard, smiling as wide as he can, “I’m Kent Parson. Do you mind buzzing 17789 West Garden Lane and letting them know I’m here?”

The guard—older, grizzled, a very solid and square-looking white dude in his mid-forties—squints suspiciously at Val, who sits without saying anything by Kent’s side, for once uncharacteristically quiet. “Sure thing,” the guard says, never taking his eyes off Kent’s daemon. “Could you tell me your name again?”

“Kent Parson,” he repeats, not letting the smile waver.

It doesn’t make a difference in Security Dude’s attitude. “Wonderful. Wait right here.”

“Ah, thank—”

Security Dude turns his back on them, his German Shepherd daemon continuing to glare at Val as he shuffles papers on his desk.

“—you,” Kent finishes.

Well, then. It looks like _somebody_ decided to put on their grumpy pants this morning.

Kent wanders over to the low, stucco-covered wall they have by the kiosk, and leans against it, setting his bags by the floor. Val stalks to the pedestrian gate and makes herself comfortable, sprawling over the sidewalk so nobody can open the door without her moving out of the way first.

 _Dude_ , Kent texts Jack on his secondhand flip-phone, _where r u? Im here n I think Val’s plottin 2 eat ur security guy. Come quick b4 they get us 4 murder_

He puts his phone back in the front pocket of his jeans and slouches a little more comfortably, practicing his cool and aloof and completely unconcerned look. It must be working, because Val snorts right afterwards.

 _Dork_ , she says through their bond, sounding fond.

 _Yeah, yeah, you know you love me_ , Kent says back, smirking, and pushes his sunglasses up with his middle finger, relishing Val’s spluttering cough of a laugh.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. There’s barely a minute between reading Jack’s text— _On my way—_ and hearing a familiar bark reach his ears.

Val perks up. “Izz!” she shouts, and there their girl is, pushing her snout through the bars to nuzzle Val affectionately. Jack is right on her heels, not even out of breath even though he must have sprinted over.

“Parse,” he says, pushing the door open as Val gets out of the way long enough for it to let Isolde through, their daemons tackling each other in their joy.

Kent takes his sunglasses off, playing it cool. “Hey, Jack,” he says, “long time no—”

Jack cuts him off by bodily tackle-hugging him. “Hey,” he says, his voice muffled somewhere against Kent’s hair. He’s got to be inhaling the stuff, they’re so close.

Kent swallows hard. “Hey,” he says to Jack’s shoulder. “I missed you.”

It must be the right thing to say, because when he pulls back, Jack’s smiling like he hung the moon.

Not everybody seems to agree with his super cool, super awesome show of acceptable no-homo bro-ship, though. “Ugh,” Val says, gagging theatrically at their feet. “You _always_ say that.”

“Yeah, yeah, like you totally weren’t pining over Izzy,” Kent says, rolling his eyes.

(He does always say it—because it’s always true. Sometimes he misses Jack when he’s just right there, something in him longing for more and more and _more_ , even when what he has should already be more than enough.

Kent’s never denied being a selfish prick.)

 

___

 

He gets put on the Zimmermanns’ guest list, which makes Security Douche look like he’s swallowed a lemon, and makes Val preen like—well, like the lion she is. It’s pretty convenient, though, because that basically means he has run of the neighborhood and can come and go whenever he pleases, and someone always has to come and open the gates for him, even if it’s ass o’clock in the morning.

He may or may not abuse this power whenever Security Douche pulls evening duty, but c’mon, when the body wants poutine, he has to go and get poutine. Zimms is always right there with him, though, so Security Douche has no way to get back at him.

 _Suck on_ that, Val tells him in the privacy of their bond, sounding smug.

Other awesome things: the rec room of Jack’s house, which has a 60-inch flat-screen t.v., surround-sound speakers, and three different gaming consoles. The neighborhood gym, where Kent gets to spend three hours every day getting put through the wringer by Jack’s personal trainer, but fuck if he isn’t actually getting a six-pack as a result. The really awesome kitchen, where the Zimmermanns’ really awesome housekeeper, Annette, makes the best waffles Kent’s ever eaten, hands-down, even if her swallow daemon is always fussing about the state of his hair. Oh, yeah, and the fact that there’s a fucking _ice rink_ in the backyard.

“Dude,” Kent says, staring open-mouthed the first time he sees the empty structure. “Is that—?”

Jack glances over. “Ah, yeah. We don’t use it in the summer—not cold enough, you know? But if you visit in the winter sometime, you can try it out.”

Kent just laughs nervously.

The Zimmerparents are also pretty fantastic, and Kent managed to not pass out at Alicia Zimmermann’s feet when he first met her, so he counts that as a win. He didn’t do quite as well meeting Bad Bob, unfortunately, and his brain mixed up the signals to his mouth and had him calling the man ‘Dad Bob’ when he shook his hand, and he wanted to die on the spot. Mr. Zimmermann took it pretty well, though, even laughed and said to call him that anytime, so for the moment the nickname seems to have stuck.     

Val’s never going to let him live it down, he can already tell.

 

___

 

Kent has his own bedroom in the Zimmermann’s house, right across from the one Jack has, and they even have their own bathroom down the hall, which is kind of wild considering that he doesn’t even have his own bathroom now in his billet house. And, technically, the whole floor is theirs, since Jack’s parents’ suite is on the second, and they’re on the third. Back home in Ithaca, his family’s whole _apartment_ doesn’t even take up half a floor.

Kent’s not gonna lie, he’s sort of impressed.

“Dude,” Kent tells Val. She’s in the same bed as he is, something they haven’t done since they were fourteen. Snuggling’s hard to pull off when one of you is three hundred pounds of solid muscle and your shared bed is the bottom half of a bunkbed. “This could be us in two years.”

Val snorts. “Try twenty,” she says.

“Bitch, we could do it in ten,” he says happily. He flops his arms out so he’s like a starfish, only his left hand landing in her fur. They have a goddamn king-sized bed, and this is only a _guest room_. The NHL life is looking better and better every day.

“The space _is_ nice,” Val says, grudging as she looks around.

“Right?” Kent says. He’s already planning to convince Jack to get him a lava lamp to help spruce the place up.

“But it’s also a bit much, don’t you think?” Val prods.

Kent wrinkles his nose. “Not really?” The five-car garage was a bit OTT, but where else were they going to put Alicia’s mini-collection of corvettes? 

Val rolls her eyes. “I mean that it’s kind of—I don’t know. Lonely, maybe. Can you imagine growing up here as an only child?” Val sighs, shaking her head. “After seeing this place, I think I can understand why Izzy and Jack were the way they were when we first met them.”

Kent sits up, instantly getting what she means. Jack and Isolde had been very—aloof. Stiff. Not used to people. Seeing this house, Kent can maybe see why. “Oh,” he says, his voice small.

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’”

Kent’s hand tightens in her fur. “Well, it turned out fine,” he says firmly. “They’ve got us now. They’re not gonna be alone anymore.”

Val rumbles and doesn’t say anything in response.

“Let’s go to sleep,” Kent says eventually, turning off the lights. Val’s eyes shimmer eerily in the dark for a moment or two before she closes them, and Kent curls into her and lets himself fall asleep.

 

___

 

To be perfectly honest, Kent finds Dianthe even cooler than her human—she’s featured prominently in his personal list of Top Ten NHL Fights, and that’s _including_ the human vs. human ones. She’s a big daemon, solid and muscular, and even Val would have trouble taking her down, not that they’d dare to even try. They aren’t suicidal, thanks. She’s pretty friendly, too, and even though Kent’s never heard her speak, she talks often enough to Val. From everything Val tells him, Dianthe is actually pretty goofy.

“You can tell where Izzy gets it from,” she says one morning when they’re hanging out in the kitchen.

Kent watches as Dianthe successfully steals another muffin from behind Annette’s back, bringing it to Bad Bob, and then sits there, looking completely innocent when Annette turns around and catches Bob mid-bite.

“You might be right,” Kent concedes. Dianthe glances over and shoots him a wink.

On the other end of the spectrum, Alicia’s Ciarán looks like one of those dogs that would win Best in Show, sharp and lean and fiercely intelligent. Both Izzy and Dianthe tower over him, but that doesn’t seem to faze him at all, and it’s clear that he’s the boss of this little pack. When he issues orders, everybody from Bob on down scrambles to obey.

“You say that like you literally wouldn’t be in the air the second after he told you to jump,” Izzy says, wrinkling her snout at him.

“Well, _yeah_ , but that doesn’t mean it’s not hilarious to watch Bad freaking _Bob_ wait hand on foot on somebody who’s a fifth of his size,” Kent shoots back.

Hilarious isn’t really the word he’s looking for, though. Kent watches Bob gently run his hand over Ciarán’s head, Alicia not even looking up from where she’s reading, Dianthe at her feet, all four of them so used to the contact, and Kent’s heart goes tight and achy to see them.

His dad used to touch Alfvandr like that, like he was holding something infinitely adored and precious. It’s the same way he’d touch Kent’s mom.

Kent squeezes his eyes shut, and takes a deep breath to steady himself.

“You okay?” Isolde asks him, worried.

He opens his eyes and smiles down at her. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he says.

Isolde makes an aborted motion, almost as if she was going to butt her snout against his hand, but that couldn’t have been right. “Let’s go outside for a run,” she says instead.

Jack looks over at that, finally tearing his eyes away from the documentary he’s watching on his tablet. “Did you say run?” he asks, perking up.

Figures that’d be the thing to catch his attention. Kent rolls his eyes. “No, you dork, we already ran five miles this morning, I’m not going again.”

Val growls in agreement, then squashes Izzy to the floor when she makes for the door anyway, Kent laughing the whole time.

(He’s so distracted by the way Jack’s eyes crinkle when he smiles that he doesn’t see how Ciarán looks sharply at the tangle Isolde and Val make of themselves, the tilt of his head suspicious.

He nudges Dianthe. “Do you think…?” he asks, indicating Isolde and Val.

“What? Oh. That’s cute, don’t you think? It’s good that she’s made a friend,” Dianthe says, tail wagging.

Ciarán watches them for a second longer, and sighs.)

 

___

 

The guest list for Jack’s seventeenth birthday party is a veritable who’s who of ’80s NHL players and ’90s sitcom stars, their assorted children in tow. All the adults greet Jack with fond familiarity, the men slapping him heartily on the back and talking hockey at him, the women kissing both of his cheeks and exclaiming over how tall he’s gotten, how put-together Isolde looks.

Jack bears it all with a practiced grace, replying more smoothly than Kent’s ever seen him, making jokes and grinning slyly, for once resembling Alicia beyond just her eyes and the shape of her mouth. But Kent watches the way tension never quite leaves his frame, the way Isolde is so still and quiet beside him, and resolves to be as much of a distraction as he can.

To Kent’s complete surprise, this proves more difficult than anticipated, mostly because he keeps on getting mistaken as a guest from Alicia’s side of the gathering, and drawn into discussions about his nonexistent modeling career.

“But _where_ have I seen you?” A perfectly manicured hand tilts his chin left and then right. “Oh, I know! Brentwood must have used you in one of his shoots—Calvin Klein, right?” one of Alicia’s supermodel friends asks him. She turns to the woman beside her. “Laura, what do you think? I’m thinking we should have Dominique call his people—she’s been looking for somebody with this kind of face, right?”

“Uhhhhh,” Kent says. Beside him, Val grimaces, eyeing the woman’s Pomeranian daemon distrustfully.

“And look at his daemon! So exotic! They’ll go wild for him.”

Laura, an elegant Asian woman who could be anywhere from her late thirties to early sixties, gives him a quick once-over, and her eyes light up with realization. “Stacy,” she says, “why don’t you get us some more drinks.” It’s not a question, and Stacy thankfully lets go of his face with a delighted shriek at the suggestion and heads straight for the bar they’ve got set up.

“Thank you,” Kent says as soon as she’s out of earshot, fervent with gratitude.

Laura laughs. “No problem, kiddo. You’re one of the hockey kids, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes_.” Kent thought that was obvious, but apparently not.

“You don’t look like you’re missing enough teeth,” Laura explains, catching his train of thought.

Kent gives a bark of laughter, and she grins, the expression matched by the pure black cat daemon she’s got draped around her shoulders like a stole. “So whose kid are you?” she asks, casting a curious eye at the people around them, as if trying to match his features up with theirs.

“Uh, nobody’s? I’m Jack’s friend.”

Laura tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “You’re Kent Parson,” she says, and—Kent really, really doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Um. Yeah,” he says, swallowing uncertainly.

Laura smiles at him. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, like that’s supposed to clear anything up.

Before Kent can, uh, _very casually_ interrogate her, Jack pops up by his elbow. “Parse, Dad wants you to meet—oh. Hey, Aunt Laura,” Jack says. Kent doesn’t think he’s imagining the nervousness in Jack’s eyes as they dart between Kent and Laura.

“Hi, Jack,” Laura says, mild.

“Um. Uncle Mario wants to—I was just—could I borrow Kent for a second?” Jack asks, fidgeting with the sleeve of Kent’s shirt.

“Sure, Jack,” Laura says.

Jack nods jerkily, and pulls Kent away towards the other side of the room where most of the hockey contingent is congregated. When Kent looks back over his shoulder, Laura and her daemon are staring after him, matching looks of amusement on both their faces.

“Um, who was that?” Kent hisses at Jack, whipping his head around.

“Nobody,” Jack says quickly, then grimaces.

Kent snorts. “Right. ‘Nobody’ like ‘secret head of the CIA nobody,’ or—?”

“Laura’s one of my mom’s closest friends. She designed her wedding dress,” Jack explains, and Kent nearly chokes.

“That was _Laura_ _Huang?”_ he asks, incredulous.

Jack squints at him suspiciously. “You know her? Is that why she was talking to you?”

“No, dude I just know _of_ her, she’s kind of a big deal, and I can’t believe I just _stood_ there, _gaping_ at her—also, why do all of your mom’s friends think that I’m a model? I don’t look like a model, do I? I’m not pretty enough to be a model.”

Jack casts him a look from beneath dark lashes, and something about it makes Kent’s blood heat—which. He’s probably reading that wrong. It’s the lighting, maybe. “Don’t mind them,” Jack says, and that’s—not exactly a no.

Does _Jack_ think he’s pretty enough to be a model? Kent swallows hard, not sure what to say.

Thankfully, he’s saved from having to figure that out when they arrive at where Bad Bob is chatting with Mario Lemieux.

Seriously. Mario _fucking_ Lemieux.

“Hey,” Jack says, “I found Parse,” and then nudges him forward.

“Kent! Just the man I was looking for!” Bob says, and turns to Mario, whose lynx daemon eyes Val curiously. Val’s actually bigger than she is, which is completely fucking jarring. They used to watch her demolish other daemons on t.v.—Val can’t be _bigger_ than her. Kent is just going to ignore that fact until he can process it later.

Then Bad Bob asks if Mario’s met Kent yet, like that could even be a possibility. No, Mario says. That’s a shame, Bob answers. Here, meet him now.

And then Kent is shaking the hands of one of the most famous hockey players currently living.

 _Seriously_ —what is his life anymore? This couldn’t possibly get any weirder—

“Wayne!” Bob shouts. “Come and meet Jack’s friend Kent!”

 _I’m going to pass out_ , Kent tells Val dimly, and then he pastes a smile on his face and proceeds to spend the next half hour pretending that he isn’t completely and utterly star-struck.

From the faint smirk on Jack’s face, he doesn’t much succeed.

 

___

 

“You asshole,” Kent tells him after the party’s over and the guests have gone home. “You totally planned that.”

“Planned what?” Jack says, all monotone, feigned obliviousness, but the glint in his eye gives him away.

“Planned my utter humiliation, you dick,” Kent says, shoving at his shoulder. Jack just laughs, barely moving an inch, the fucker.

(It does something to Kent, knowing how solid and strong Jack is—knowing that if he didn’t want to move, he wouldn’t be moved. Knowing that if he didn’t want Kent to move, either, he could just hold him there, and Kent—

Kent knows he’d let him.)

 

___

 

Things come to a head two days later.

They’re in the basement rec room, playing Wii Tennis of all fucking things, with Kent winning best two of three and crowing about it, and then Jack decides to tackle him and start an impromptu wrestling match.

When they finally stop rolling around, Jack’s got him pinned to the floor, using his bulk to keep him still, arms held above his head, Jack’s wide hands flat on his wrists so he can’t move. Kent’s mouth goes abruptly dry when he registers the position, his laughter cutting off as his face flushes red. Above him, Jack does the same thing.

“Uh,” Kent says, ever-eloquent, and licks his lips.

Jack’s eyes track the movement, as intent as they are on the ice, and, _fuck_ , if that doesn’t have him chubbing up in his sweats. Kent wants to squirm underneath him, wants to rut up against Jack and get himself the rest of the way hard, wants Jack to tilt his head down and kiss him until both of their mouths are sloppy and wet and red and bruised from _too much, too much_ , exactly the way his heart feels.

He licks his lips again, feeling brave enough to start tilting _his_ head up instead, when Jack abruptly rolls off him, landing on his back to the side and breathing hard, an arm placed over his face.

“Sorry,” he says, and then he’s getting up, scrambling away, and all Kent can do is reach out for him.

 _Wait_ , he wants to say, but the word gets caught in his throat.

“Wait,” Val says for him, blocking off Jack with her body, tail lashing in agitation. Jack steps back, his shoulders tense, Isolde a bundle of nerves beside him, and all Kent wants to do is make him relax, make him calm down, get them back to where they were a minute ago and not mess it up this time.

“Sorry,” Jack says again. “I didn’t mean—I don’t want you to think—I’m sorry, that was so fucked up, please don’t—don’t—”

Kent hauls himself up off the carpet, crosses the room to Jack in about three strides, turns him around by the shoulders, and finally does what he’s been wanting to do since the first time he saw him smile:

He grabs him by those ridiculous cheekbones and kisses him.

It’s…a weird first kiss. The angle’s off, and Jack is tense and still against him, and Kent has been assured by various people that he’s a great fucking kisser, but maybe they lied to him, and maybe it’s different when you’re kissing a boy, maybe he’s doing this all wrong, but then Jack gasps and shudders against him, and then he’s kissing Kent back.

He’s kissing Kent _back_. Nothing matters beyond that.

Kent moans and wraps his arms around Jack’s neck, raising himself up on his tiptoes so Jack won’t have to strain to reach him. He wants to make this good for Jack, make him see how easy this is, how right, wants to make it so good that Jack will want to do this for the rest of their lives. He coaxes his mouth closer with a hand on Jack’s jaw, sliding his tongue in without hesitation when Jack opens up for him, feeling a surge of triumph when Jack groans softly and he can feel it reverberate right through him. He hears Isolde echo the sound with her own whimper, and he can feel the way she pushes herself against Val, winding closer, closer.

Jack has to feel it, too—he pulls away with a gasp, saying, “Kenny—Jesus, Kenny, _please_ —”

“Yeah, Zimms,” Kent replies nonsensically. “Whatever you want. We’ll give you two whatever you want.”

Apparently whatever they want is Jack on the sofa, whining into Kent’s mouth as he reaches into his pants and palms his dick through his boxers.

“Jack,” Kent whispers, his hand tight on the back of Jack’s neck, possessive, half-feral with want, “is this okay? Is this—do you want—”

“ _More_ , Kenny, please, would you—”

Kent can do that. He fumbles at the waistband of Jack’s shorts, pushing them down off his hips, taking the time to grope at that glorious ass while he’s at it.

“Fuck, Zimms, you’re so fucking beautiful. You’re so fucking good—I’m gonna make you feel _so_ good, gonna give you everything you want—” He spits into his palm and gets his hand around Jack, watching Jack’s face as his mouth drops open, panting, cheeks flushing red and eyes squeezing shut as Kent strokes him from root to tip. Isolde gives a keening cry in response, and Val nuzzles her urgently, pinning her to the ground, in contrast to the way Jack traps Kent between his body and the back of the couch, hips rocking in time with Kent’s strokes. There’s a joke to be made here, Kent thinks, something about telepathy and synchronization and long hours of hockey practice paying off, but saying it would require removing Jack’s tongue from his mouth, and he’s not about to sign up for that. Jack’s as quiet here as he is anywhere else, reduced to breathy gasps and little moans, but Isolde’s loud enough for the both of them.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” Val murmurs to her, soothing. “Shhh, it’s alright.”

“I can’t—I can’t—feels so good, you’re making us feel so—Val, _Val_ —” Isolde says as Jack leans shamelessly into Kent’s touch, his hands in his hair, his leg placed possessively over Kent’s thighs like an anchor, keeping him right where he wants him. That’s fine with Kent; it’s the perfect position to watch Jack’s face as he works him to a shuddering climax, those long lashes of his fluttering with every pass of Kent’s hand, and Kent did that, Kent made him look that way—

“Kenny,” Jack whispers after, opening his eyes, looking somehow both drowsy and heated, and how is Kent supposed to resist that, huh? He darts forward to steal another kiss, open-mouthed and already addicted to Jack’s taste. 

Jack laughs against his lips, and squirms a little. “Hold on,” he says, then he pulls away.

“What, no,” Kent protests, grabbing for his shoulders, but Jack ignores him, reaching for—holy fuck, reaching for a tissue box that Isolde’s got caught between her jaws.

“The fuck?” Kent says laughing, and Jack’s laughing, too, as he dumps the box on Kent’s belly.

“This is a couch imported from Italy, Parse,” Jack says solemnly, schooling his face into a serious expression, though his eyes are totally still guffawing with glee, the bastard.

“We can’t get come on the couch imported from _Italy_ ,” Isolde adds, all false innocence, and that, _that_ sets all of them off for ten minutes straight.

“God, you two are ridiculous,” Kent says after, from where he’s flopped breathlessly on his back. Val _mmrows_ in clear solidarity.

“Mm,” replies Jack in what might be agreement, what might not. He nibbles gently at the lobe of Kent’s ear, and Kent’s previously ignored dick comes raring back to attention.

“Um—ah,” Kent says, wriggling just from the way Jack runs his teeth along the cartilage. “Z-Zimms,” he stutters, finally giving in and pressing the heel of his hand against his hard-on.

“Mm, no,” Jack rumbles against his ear, all low-voiced and sexy and—fuck, fuck, he’s pushing his hand away, and Kent gives a distressed whine that’s abruptly cut off when Jack replaces it with his own.

“Oh, shit,” Kent says, “oh, shit, oh, shit, oh—why are you _stopping?”_ he demands when Jack pauses, his hand just resting there. Kent arches his hips, tries to get some friction, but that’s kind of difficult when Jack doesn’t get with the program.

Jack doesn’t resume moving his hand, but he doesn’t pull away, either. He says, uncertain, “I don’t—you kinda sounded—is this—”

“No, no, this is good, this is great, this is—ah, fuck, yes, fuck, _ah_ —”

Now it’s his and Val’s turn to lie there helplessly as Jack and Isolde thoroughly, methodically take them apart bit by bit. Jack’s slower about it, more measured, his eyes noting down Kent’s every reaction and adjusting accordingly. Kent would think him completely detached from the situation at hand if it weren’t for the flush on his cheeks, the way his pupils edge out his irises so there’s barely a sliver of blue around the intense black of them.

“You’re so pretty,” Jack tells him. “You look so good, Kenny, so fucking—I wish you could see yourself, so then you’d know.” He rubs his thumb over the head of Kent’s dick, and between that and the way he’s talking, it’s a miracle Kent hasn’t come yet. Val is practically vibrating out of her skin beside them, Isolde shifting through a range of different forms—badger, coyote, wolf, cougar—each shape bigger than the last, the better to hold her down with.

“Val,” Isolde says each time she changes, so they know it’s her. They’d know her anywhere, Kent thinks hazily, no matter what she looks like. Her voice is always the same, and she always says their names the same, the same way Jack says them.

“Kenny,” Jack says. And then, “Sweetheart.” And then, “Yes.”

Kent can’t say anything back, just closes his eyes and lets himself sob when he comes.

 

___

 

“Hey,” Kent says after they’ve put all their clothes back on and are heading up the stairs out of the rec room.

“Hm?” Jack says, turning to look over his shoulder. The light from the stairwell illuminates his head, makes him look like he has a halo, but it also makes it difficult for Kent to read his expression.

“Is this—is this going to be a thing?” Kent asks, shoving his hands in his pockets and doing his best to keep his shoulders from hunching.

Jack’s mouth goes flat. “If you want it to be,” he says tonelessly.

That is…the opposite of helpful. “Dude, if I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t have done it in the first place,” he says, placing his hand on Val’s head to steady himself.   

“Yes, but—” Jack cuts himself off, letting out a frustrated huff. “I don’t—you don’t owe me anything, Kent.”

“What the hell?” Kent says, stung, feeling his temper spark. Is that what Jack thinks is going on? “I’m not some gold-digger, Jack. In case you didn’t notice, I might be poor, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to fuck you just because you let me sleep over at your goddamn mansion. I’ve got more pride that that.” Val growls her support, baring her fangs.

“That’s not what I meant,” Jack says, sounding exasperated. “I meant that I don’t expect more than that from you. You’re my _best friend_ , Kenny. That comes first, okay?”

Kent bites his lip, so the words, _But I want to mean more than that_ , don’t come bursting out of him. “Okay,” he says instead. “I get that.” He shrugs, trying to play it cool.

Then Val has to go and open her big, fat mouth, interjecting, “You’re going to let us touch you guys again, though, right?”

“Val!” Kent says, going red. “Jesus!”

But it must be alright, because Isolde’s giggling, darting down past Jack’s legs to butt her head against Val. “Yeah,” she says, wagging her tail. “Any time you want to.”

Jack blushes, but doesn’t refute her words. And, well, well, well—isn’t _that_ interesting?

Kent grins. This is going to be an awesome August, he just knows it.

 

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	5. would that he was born a wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, Jack’s restraint makes no difference, because Isolde is an open book. Five days after they start having sex, she goes from touching Val to touching Kent.
> 
> They’re not even in bed when it happens, so there’s no way to pass it off as anything other than what it is, which is basically a shouted declaration of both his and Isolde’s feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Same warnings apply to this chapter as the last. Also, there's under-negotiated kink, light breathplay, canon-compliant drug abuse, and Jack Zimmermann's overdose.

* * *

 

_**CH. 5: would that he was born a wolf** _

 

* * *

 

After that first time, it’s like a dam has broken—Jack and Parse can barely keep their hands off each other any time they have the house to themselves, which isn’t as often as Jack and Isolde would like, but definitely more alone time than they’d get back in Rimouski.

“God, I can’t believe we’re only going to get to do this on Sundays once September rolls around,” Parse complains, pressing his face to Jack’s throat, and Jack hopes that he can’t register how fast his heart is beating.

(Parse still wants to be doing this in September. This isn’t just a summer hook-up for him, thank God.)

 

___

 

Jack knows better than to tell Kent that he’s in—that he loves him. What are they going to do about it? The two of them are heading to the NHL in a year’s time, and there’s no future for them beyond anything as friends from Juniors, barely even a hope that they get to play in the same fucking conference, let alone getting traded to the same team and picking up where they left off. Which is—what? Best friends who sometimes fool around? Two guys just getting each other off?

Jack doesn’t even know where to begin, can’t help but think that Kent would be better off with almost anybody else, any of the girls who hang around him at school and at parties. Somebody who knows how to talk to people, somebody who’s smart and confident and funny, somebody who could get a whole room to laugh without worrying that they were the ones being laughed _at_. Somebody who he could hold hands with in public, somebody he wouldn’t be afraid to kiss out in the open where anybody could see, instead of behind locked doors and in pitch-black rooms, where every touch is a secret and every sound is the thing that could give the both of them away.

Somebody who’d _fit_ him.

Jack doesn’t know where this is going to end, but he knows the only thing Parse would have to give him if he said half the things he felt is pity. Parse knows the score even better than he does, has probably already figured out their expiration date and how to best handle the disentanglement of Jack from his life, how to start the seamless transition from ‘best friend’ into ‘a guy that he used to know.’

“Zimms,” Parse moans in his ear, and Jack still has to close his eyes shut tight and bite his shoulder to keep from saying those three words anyway.

 

___

 

As always, Jack’s restraint makes no difference, because Isolde is an open book. Five days after they start having sex, she goes from touching Val to touching Kent.

They’re not even in bed when it happens, so there’s no way to pass it off as anything other than what it is, which is basically a shouted declaration of both his and Isolde’s feelings.

“Oh. Um. Hey,” Parse says, uncharacteristically awkward, wide-eyed as he stares down at Isolde’s head on his knee.

“Isolde!” Jack scolds, but his protest falls on deaf ears. Isolde gives him a sheepish look but inches closer to Parse regardless, her dark eyes beseeching as she nudges her snout up against his hand.

“Uh,” Parse says, but he doesn’t move away.

“Please?” Isolde asks, and Parse—well, Parse hasn’t ever told Isolde no, not that Jack can remember. He’s not going to start now.

Parse takes a shaky breath and deliberately threads his fingers through her fur.

Jack gasps.

Parse freezes, eyes wide with guilt, but before he can even say anything, Isolde is moving into his lap, all sleek, demanding grace as she curls her body tight against him.

“It’s okay,” she assures him. “We like this.”

And all Jack can do is nod, and stay in his seat, and watch as the boy he loves puts his hands on Jack’s soul. Parse runs his fingers reverently over her, and this isn’t— _shouldn’t_ be sexual, but Jack can feel himself growing hard anyway, every touch on Isolde feeling like a touch on his bare skin.

“Jack,” Parse says, low-voiced, heavy-lidded, and the second after he says it, Val is by Jack’s side, her head tilted up expectantly.

There’s a weight of inevitability pressing down on him when he lifts his hands and slides them, dream-like, into the golden fur at the side of Val’s face, her strong column of a neck, the steady angles of her shoulders. She tilts her head up for more, more, and Jack obliges.

“Been wanting your hands on her for a long time,” Kenny admits, his voice as rough as the fur that Jack is edging his fingers through, and Jack can’t help himself. He falls to his knees and buries his face in Val’s neck, sensing the vibrations of her gasp against his cheekbones, hearing the echo of it through Isolde’s ears as Kenny draws in a sharp, sharp breath. He runs his hands down the length of Val’s body, feeling the powerful lines of her limbs, the heat and warmth of her, the solid, steadfast beat of her heart, and thinks that of course this is her form, of course this is the shape she settled into. A lion to match Kenny’s lion-hearted soul, bigger than his own damn body, demanding to be seen and heard, impossible to ignore.

 _I would know,_ Jack thinks, _I would know you anywhere._  

 

___

 

The first time they fuck, Jack is on his hands and knees. The thought crosses his mind more than once that of course this is how he would want it, this is how he wants to give himself to his wild lion of a boy: Kent’s teeth like a brand against his shoulders, his hands vise-like and possessive on his hips, and his voice low and rough in his ear, though Jack can barely hear him over Val’s rumbling snarls, Isolde’s answering growls.

“Mine,” Kent gasps out, “you’re mine, Zimms, you’re—”

‘Yes,” Jack promises heedlessly, blindly. “Yes, always, yes.”

(There will come a time when he wishes he could take those words back, wishes that he’d never promised Kent Parson any such thing, but, sadly for Jack Zimmermann, there won’t ever be a time when they aren’t in some way true.)

 

___

 

Once when Kent’s out with his dad so they can buy him a fishing pole, his mom’s Ciarán has a conversation with Isolde that sends alarm running through their bond.

 _What?_ Jack asks, but Isolde says to wait until later, when it’s just them, so he does.

“Jack,” Isolde says after his mom leaves the room, Ciarán at her heels.

“What is it?” he says, reaching a hand out so he can pat her head. She’s trembling, her heartrate escalated, and it says something about them that his first thought is that maybe it’s just their anxiety acting up, nothing too urgent. They take turns, him and Isolde, being the ones plagued by completely illogical and also completely spontaneous and unavoidable thoughts of every possible thing that could go wrong at any given moment. Sometimes it’s Jack who can’t shut his brain off; sometimes it’s Isolde. Rarely, it’s both, and those are the bad times, the times where they can’t help each other, can’t pull each other out, they just have to wait for somebody to throw them a lifeline while they cling to each other and drown.

It’s not one of those times, though, Jack thinks, especially not with Ciarán’s last cryptic look at Isolde as he left. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he says, cautious. He sits on the couch so Isolde has space to jump onto it, and lets her burrow beside him. Physical contact always helps them.

“I think Ciarán knows. About me. And Val. I think he knows,” Isolde says in a rush, and Jack is jolted straight from mild trepidation right into a pit of ice-cold fear.

“What?” he says, and Isolde whines.

“He—he asked me just now if there was anything I wanted to tell him,” she admits.

“And?”

“And nothing! I told him I didn’t need to tell him anything!” Isolde barks, her agitation echoing through their bond.

Jack takes a deep breath, trying to think their situation through. “Are you sure he just wasn’t worried about us not settling yet?”

Isolde growls. “It’s not that! He said—he asked—he’s been looking at us, Jack. I think—I think he knows.”

Jack holds her closer, trying to soothe her agitation while managing his own. “Do you think he told Maman?”

Isolde shakes her head. “He said he wouldn’t,” she says, her voice small. “He said he wouldn’t tell anyone if I needed him not to, but that he was always willing to listen.”

 _Shit_. “He knows,” Jack says, closing his eyes.

“What’ll we do?” Isolde asks, a hairsbreadth away from frantic.

“We’ll just—we’ll just not say anything.” Jack takes a deep breath to calm them both. “We’ll ignore it.”

“Okay,” Isolde says, placing her head on his knee. They’re quiet for a while, but eventually she says, “Do you think it would be so bad, though? If we told?”

“I don’t think so,” Jack says. His mom, especially, has a lot of friends in the gay and lesbian community, and he knows she and his dad love him. It might change things, though, and Jack’s not sure he’s ready for that. Besides, “I think we’d have to ask Parse first anyway,” he says, “before we said anything.”

“Of course,” Isolde says.

It turns out to be a moot point. Because that night, after dinner, Parse helps him put the dishes in the washer and Isolde comes and sits between their feet, her tail brushing Parse’s bare calf, her head leaning affectionately against his hip. Val keeps a more respectable distance, lounging underneath the table, but her eyes glint with pleasure when Parse drops an affectionate hand on Isolde’s head to scratch behind her ears.

And of course that’s the second Jack’s parents choose to walk in.

“Marde,” Dianthe says, stopping dead in her tracks so his father runs right into her.

“Fuck,” Val says, bolting upright and then swearing again when she bangs her head against the table.

“Well, then,” Ciarán sighs.  

“Um. We can—we can explain,” Isolde says.

“I’m sure,” Ciarán says dryly, and Jack’s mother nudges him with her foot.

“We’re dating,” Isolde blurts out, and now it’s Jack’s turn to nudge his daemon with his foot.

 _Isolde,_ he hisses through their bond. _You can’t just say that! Kenny and Val probably don’t even—_

“Um, yeah, we are,” Parse says unexpectedly, reaching out to grab Jack’s clammy hand  in his, squeezing just a bit too tightly. Jack squeezes back, filled with sudden relief, and nods wordlessly in support.

“You _are?”_ Dianthe and Bob say simultaneously, surprised, but Dianthe recovers first and shakes it off, coming to Isolde and bumping their noses together. “I mean—how nice! Congratulations, sweetheart, that’s—that’s very good of you,” Dianthe babbles. “Really surprising, but I mean, well, that’s—it’s—it’s great!”

“Yes,” Alicia says looking from Jack and Isolde to Kent and Val, “that’s lovely, sweetheart. We’re very happy for all of you.” There’s a little furrow between her brows that speaks of concern, but when she smiles, it _seems_ sincere. She nudges his father with an elbow, and Bob fumbles through his own congratulations, more tongue-tied than Jack’s used to seeing him, but still well-meaning.

Jack can feel Isolde’s sudden joy and relief through the bond, and wishes he could feel the same.

 

___

 

It doesn’t change too much, his parents knowing. There’s the heightened embarrassment of knowing that they know what he and Parse are probably getting up to while they’re out of the house, but other than sitting through an awkwardly revised version of the talk with his dad, nothing happens.

“Can I tell my mom?” Parse mumbles one night. They’re inches away from falling asleep, curled up like they usually are, Parse’s back to Jack’s front, one of Jack’s arms pillowing his head, the other resting over his waist, Isolde and Val likewise a tangle of limbs on the floor at the foot of the bed.  

“Yeah,” Jack says after a moment. “If you think it’ll be alright, then—yeah.”

Parse lifts a shoulder, shrugging. “She already knows I like guys—thirteen-year-old me wasn’t exactly subtle when it came to his celebrity crushes.”

Out of sight, Val snorts. “That’s one way of putting it. The more accurate thing would be admitting that you had a massive boner for Orlando Bloom _and_ Keira Knightley when Pirates of the Caribbean came out.”

Isolde giggles, but Jack startles a little, surprised. “Ah,” he says. “So you still—you like both?” He’s seen Parse break away from parties with a girl in tow, but he’s never had a steady girlfriend that Jack knows of. But now Parse has him, so that’s—it would make sense if he liked both, wouldn’t it?

Parse turns over, tilts his head to look up at him. “Yeah, I like both,” he says, sounding nonchalant, though he’s tense in Jack’s arms. Jack envies him that, the ability to present himself as completely unconcerned even when he’s not, unless someone gets close enough to see the cracks. “What about you?”

Now it’s Jack’s turn to go tense. “I guess I’m fine with both, too,” he says. Honestly, he’s not entirely sure; he doesn’t mind looking at either, but it always seemed limited to just that—liking how someone looked. Being physically attracted to them. Liking someone, loving them the way his parents loved each other just didn’t seem to be for him. The only thing he could ever imagine being in love with was hockey.

But then Parse happened, and somewhere in between becoming his best friend and ending up in bed with him, he’d fallen head over heels.

Parse relaxes. “Oh, cool. Then we’re the same, huh?”

“Mm.”

Parse tilts his head forward, kisses him lightly, then rolls back over and heads to sleep.

Jack buries his face in his hair and tries to do the same. He’s not very successful, unfortunately.

 

___ 

 

When Kent and Val leave, Jack and Isolde stand at the curb until they’re out of sight, a vise around both their hearts that tightens with every meter of distance that takes them farther and farther away from them.

“Come on,” Jack says eventually, minutes past the time Kent and Val’s bus disappeared from view. He turns around and walks away.

It takes a moment, but Isolde follows at his heels without a word.

 

___

 

Three days after Kent leaves, Jack opens his eyes and rolls over, shutting off his alarm. When he looks down, Isolde is at the foot of his bed, similarly shaking off sleep, opening her mouth wide in a sleepy yawn. She’s shaped like a badger this morning, with black and white stripes, a sturdy, stocky frame.

“Good morning,” Jack says.

“Morning,” she says cheerfully, jumping down to the floor and turning once, twice.

She stops, and Jack feels a tendril of alarm shoot through her. She turns around again, once, twice, thrice.

She stops, and she’s still a badger.

“No,” she says, staring down at her own paws in horror. “No, that can’t—this isn’t right, this can’t be—no.”

Jack thinks that he should go down and comfort her, tell her that it’s fine, it’s alright, just relax, sweetheart—

But he can’t. He’s frozen to the spot, staring back at her, the both of them equally afraid, and equally certain of their new reality:

They’ve settled. This is it. Isolde isn’t a wolf, isn’t a coyote or cougar or bear or any kind of apex predator at all.

She’s a badger, and she’s going to be a badger for the rest of their lives.

“No,” she says, sounding broken and lost and completely terrified. She shakes her head, stumbles backward as if trying to run away from her own body. “No, no, no, no, _no—”_

 That snaps Jack out of his stupor, send him hurrying out of the bed and to the floor, scooping up his daemon in his arms. “Shh,” he tells her, trying to calm her, “sweetheart, it’s fine, you’re fine, this is—this is good. It’s good. We’re good. I’m happy for us, sweetheart.”

His voice breaks halfway through the last sentence. Isolde just shakes her head and sobs harder, and they’re left there on the floor, the two of them inconsolable even as Jack says, over and over, “It’s good, Isolde. We’re good. We’re good.”

(Remember, this is Jack at seventeen. This is the first time he’s lied to his daemon, to his very own soul, and expected her to believe it. He’s not very good at it, the way he’s never good at anything unless he practices, and he hasn’t put in the practice yet.

Don’t worry, though. He will. He’ll get better at it than he’d ever imagined.)

 

___

 

Their first day back at Rimouski is a clusterfuck of epic proportions. Jack and Isolde are holed up with the coaching staff for hours that feel like excruciating years, beginning to hammer out a new strategy to work around Jack’s newest limitation. Isolde is neither as fast nor as large nor as intimidating as she used to be, and they’re going to have to adjust.

It’s fine. They’re fine. It doesn’t matter what Isolde’s shape is; Jack’s going to be a good enough hockey player to make up for it.

When they finally get out of the rink—taking the back door because they don’t feel like running into anybody they know right now—Parse is leaning against his truck, Val already in the bed.

“Hey, Zimms, Izzy,” he calls out. “Looking good.”

The words are like a blow, a betrayal, and acid rises in his throat as he walks around and unlocks the door. He picks Isolde up because she can’t get in by herself anymore, then throws himself inside after her and slams the door, jaw clenched tight. Parse follows suit, his face carefully neutral, his eyes cool gray and unreadable in the murky evening light as he wordlessly puts on his seatbelt. He turns to Isolde right afterward, reaching out a hand, and Isolde flinches back.

Parse’s eyes flicker at that, but he puts his hand down. “Meant what I said, you know,” he says quietly. “You’re looking good. Fierce. Val and I like it.”

“We’re a fucking joke,” Jack bursts out.

“You’re not,” Parse says. “Jack, who’s fucking saying that? I’ll punch ’em out, swear to God I will—”

“What, you think I can’t handle them on my own?”

“No, Jesus, I just meant I have your back—”

“I don’t fucking need your help, câlisse, Parse, would you just—”

“Of course you don’t need my help, Zimms, but I’m fucking _here_ , don’t just fucking _push me away_ —”    

“Goddammit, Parse! Not everything is about you!” Jack yells, slamming on the brakes.

They sit there for a few beats, both of them breathing hard. “We’re here,” Jack mutters, tilting his head at Parse’s billet house.

Parse, predictably, stays right where he is. “Jack,” he says, “just fucking talk to me.”

Jack crosses his arms. “What the hell is there to say?” he grits out, mutinous. “My daemon is a fucking badger, about a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than most daemons in the league. Do you honestly think I have a chance at making it now?” Despair rises up in him, everything inside him going tight and cold. Isolde doesn’t say anything, just nudges her snout against his hand, her own despair tinged with guilt and shame.

God, they’re so fucked. It’s over for them, isn’t it?

Parse sets his jaw and shakes his shoulder. “Of course you have a chance, Zimms. You’re the best fucking player in all of Juniors. So you’re daemon’s not a common one—”

“I’m a little too common, Kenny,” Isolde says sadly.

Parse’s mouth turns down, and Val sticks her head in. “You’re fucking exceptional, baby,” she tells her, “and you’re going to be just fine. You think those claws of yours are just for show? So you’re not as fast, so what? You don’t have to be fast—you’ve got me. We’ll get one of those sleds,” she says, referring to the recently approved daemon assistance tools that the coaches had already assured Jack they were looking into, “and I’ll be fast enough for the both of us.”

Isolde shudders, and voices the thought that’s been plaguing them since they found out they’d settled: “That’ll just prove that we’re not good enough to make it on our own.”

Val bares her fangs, fiercely amused. “Hate to say it, babe, but you aren’t.” Jack and Isolde both recoil at that, but she keeps going: “Haven’t you been to enough team-building sessions? There’s no ‘I’ in team and all that bullshit? You can’t win games on your own, you dumbasses. And there’s no reason for a player of Jack’s caliber to get hindered because his daemon isn’t the usual apex predator. Like, fuck, do you really think the league’s going to care what you settled as so long as you two still put points on the board? They’re _not_. Stop freaking out, you’re going to be fine.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” Jack mumbles, and Val butts her head against his.

“Don’t remember the last time we had this conversation?” she demands, exasperated. “Back when it turned out you guys hadn’t settled yet? And who got proven right, hmm?”

“You did,” Jack says reluctantly. “But—”

“No buts!” Val protests. Parse likewise reaches out his hand and squeezes Jack’s fingers tight.

“It’ll be fine, man,” he says. “We’re going to kick ass, just watch.”

Jack frowns, but doesn’t argue.

 

___

 

When the season starts, Kent and Val’s words are once more proven annoyingly true, and Jack pretends he’s not relieved. Oh, it’s by no means _easy_ , but then hockey never was. Jack has to work harder, practice longer, do better than anybody else, but it’s fine. It’s fine. He’s good enough for it, and Isolde’s good enough, too.

They change, the two of them. Jack gets stronger, gets faster, uses the combination of his well-honed athlete’s body and his mind’s analytical nature to play the game by anticipating the best openings, the right timing. Isolde, for her part, gets a reputation for being a vicious fighter, someone who goes for the belly without hesitation, who isn’t afraid to go toe to toe with daemons three times her size.

They’re still reliant on that goddamn sled, on one of their teammates pulling Isolde behind like so much dead weight, but it’s fine. It’s manageable.

If need be, Isolde can just get stay behind and let Jack go ahead. She’ll follow after as soon as possible. 

They get used to the ache of the pull between them stretched to the breaking point, both their souls shrieking in agony, but it’s what needs to be done, so they do it.    

 

___

 

The anxiety gets worse, because of course it fucking does. They don’t ever catch a break, the two of them?

Jack starts taking his pills twice a day, just to take the edge off.

It’s no big deal. He’s got it under control. He and Isolde just—they need a little more to be on an even keel.

It’s what needs to be done, so they do it.

 

___

 

Jack goes to school with Parse, and he goes to practice with Parse, and he shares a seat and a room with Parse on away games, and he spends parties downing drink after drink with Parse sitting pretty in his lap.

They’re always together, but that’s just hockey. That’s just lineys being lineys, a captain relying on his A.

“Just bros being bros,” Parse snickers against his neck, grinding his hips up filthily. He’s barely half-hard, a little slower to get there since he’s had a few drinks tonight. He’s not like Jack, where alcohol dulls his thoughts to a pleasant hum and ratchets his physical sensations up and up, so that for once his body is louder than his brain. Jack likes getting drunk. It makes everything so much easier, lighter, and he thinks to himself that this is probably what normal people feel like every day. What Parse feels every day.

It makes him jealous sometimes, but that’s not a helpful thought to have right now, not when he has Kenny beautiful and pliant beneath him, his eyes hot and his mouth wet, both of his wrists held in one of Jack’s.

“Close your eyes,” Jack demands, and Kenny smirks, but he does it. He does it, and something twists low and pleasurable in Jack’s belly to watch him obey.

They don’t really talk about it, how sometimes Jack needs—a little more. Needs Kent to do what he says, needs Kent helpless and needy and begging for him, needs to make him fall apart so Jack can put him back together, can feel like he’s the one who’s in control for once.

Jack puts his hand at Kenny’s throat, feels him take in a sharp breath. Feels his pulse flutter, feels the heat of his blush under his fingers as it moves down from his cheeks to his neck. Jack rubs his thumb over his collarbones, over the delicate hollow at the base of his throat. He squeezes, just a little, not enough to hurt, just enough so Kenny can feel the pressure, and Kenny swallows hard, his breathing going fast and shallow.

“Uh,” Jack says, alarmed, and loosens his grip, but Kenny just shakes his head, tilts his neck up in offering.

“Please,” Val begs, a vulnerable note in her voice she only ever gets here, safely curled around Isolde. Kenny shifts his hips up, echoing her words, and Jack bites his lip when he registers that Kenny’s all the way hard.

“Yeah, Kenny,” he says, tightening the hand at his throat and trailing the other down Kenny’s warm, warm skin, “I’ve got you. You’re mine.”

Kenny shudders, and then Jack’s touching him, making him squirm and moan and beg, and then he’s coming for him, Jack watching all the while as the pleasure suffuses his face.

Not for the first time, he thinks that sometimes it looks awfully close to pain.

It’s fine, though. Kenny will take either from him, and he would do the same. It’s what makes them _them_.

 

___

 

After, Isolde tells Val, “You’re mine.”

“Yeah,” Val agrees, and Kent twines his foot between Jack’s as if in echo.

 

___

 

They lose three games in a row. Jack has a panic attack in his bathroom, can’t make himself get up off his knees and get to his bedside table for his bottle of pills.

It’s fine, though, because Isolde comes and brings them to him, trembling with every step, but her eyes are a steady comfort when Jack fumbles the cap off and swallows. She watches over him as—slowly, _slowly—_ his hands stop shaking.

It’s what needs to be done, so they do it.

 

___

 

They win five games in a row, clinching their spot for the Memorial Cup playoffs. Jack has a panic attack in his bathroom, bad enough that Isolde’s affected, too, and neither of them can get up and get their pills.

It’s fine, though, because Kent comes and brings them to him, hauling him upright and pressing the bottle into his hands, Val curling around Isolde to soothe her. Kent’s eyes—a dark, somber blue—are tight with worry as Jack struggles to get the cap open. Kent takes it from him and does it himself, asks him how many he needs.

“Four,” Jack says, and he isn’t lying. That’s how many he needs.

Kent hesitates, but the label’s been carefully peeled off. He wouldn’t know that four is twice the recommended dosage. He hands the pills over, and watches as Jack swallows them down, his eyes dark and unreadable to anyone but Jack. They haven’t been unreadable for a while, so Jack knows exactly the questions he’s wordlessly asking.

Jack pulls him into a desperate, shaky kiss instead of answering.

It’s what needs to be done, so he does it.

 

___

 

When they win the Memmer, Jack’s smiling widely enough in all the pictures that afterwards he can barely recognize himself, can’t help but think that it must have been a different person entirely. Even Isolde looks happier than he’s ever seen her, fitting into her skin in a way that’s startling and new.

Kent and Val are beside them in every single picture, pressed so close that Jack’s nearly touching Val, her fur a finger’s breadth away.

They didn’t touch, though. They never touched in public, were always so careful, so cautious of the lines drawn in the sand, the limits of this far and no further. There was hockey to think of, the NHL and all that entailed, and Kent and Jack may have been reckless, but they weren’t stupid. After everything they’d given, they knew better than to risk that.

 

___

 

They can touch all they like at Jack’s house—Parse comes home with him to spend their summer together, and they have thirty-four glorious days stretching out before them.

 _Our last_ , Isolde tells him, quiet, resigned. No matter what Parse and Val tell them, they know better than to think the draft won’t change everything. Vegas has first pick, Providence the second, and that’s two thousand and seven hundred miles between them.

 _Seattle has third_ , Jack tells Isolde, blackly amused. _If we get that spot, then that’s only one thousand one hundred, not to mention we’d still be in the same time zone._

Isolde sighs. _Like our luck would ever be that good._

Besides, it isn’t the distance that worries them—it’s the certainty that once they’re out of Kent and Val’s orbit, they’ll be easily replaced. Jack and Isolde don’t have anything to offer but hockey, and there’s plenty of great players where they’re going. It’s a faint hope that Jack and Isolde will be able to keep their interest then.

“Well. At least we’ll have hockey,” Jack tells Isolde.

She laughs hollowly.

 

___

 

On their twelfth day together, Isolde slips up and lets some of their thoughts through, causing Kent to nearly fall off the landing into the lake, and Val to splutter in disbelief.

 _“What the fuck?”_ Val says. “We’re not going to get _bored_ of you, Izz—that’s completely fucking lunatic talk.”

“But why wouldn’t you?” Isolde says sadly. “Look at me! I’m so—” She sighs, scratching her claws morosely against the wood. Jack knows she likes her form even less than he does—he’s caught her thinking more than once that she looks ugly and stumpy, nothing like graceful, deadly Val. He never knows what to say—telling her that looks don’t matter in hockey anyway does nothing to improve her spirits.

“You’re beautiful,” Val says firmly. “And I love you, so I’m keeping you.”

At her words, it’s Jack’s turn to nearly fall off the pier.

 

___

 

“Seriously, though, it’s just a few years,” Kent mumbles against his chest. “I’ll do my best to get traded to Vegas, or even just a city on the West Coast.” He grimaces and makes a noise of disgust low in his throat. “Christ, what the hell is there to do in Providence? You have all the luck, seriously.”

“Who says _I’m_ not the one going to the Falcs?” Jack mutters back.

Kent pokes him in the side. “Come on, dumbass, don’t act like you aren’t going first. I’m going to be stuck in fucking Rhode Island while you’re in Sin City, and _you’re_ the one who’s worried I’ll find somebody else?” he asks, then sighs. “Unless you don’t want to…?”

Jack tightens his arms. “Of course I want to.” Playing on the same team as Kenny again sounded like heaven; he just knew the odds for it were depressingly low. Though if one or either of them did well enough to have some pull…

“Let’s do it, Jack,” Kent pleads. “You and me, Val and Izzy—we could be lifting a cup again in a few years’ time.”

“We can do it,” Val seconded, equally fervent.

“Okay,” Jack answers. “Okay, yeah, let’s do it.”

Parse’s smile could light up a city.

 

___

 

Jack turns on the t.v., and predictably the hockey pundits are talking about the draft.

“—not saying Zimmermann doesn’t have the _skills_ , but does he have the temperament? For Pete’s sake, look what his daemon settled as. She’s a badger, an animal straight from children’s storybooks,” one of the commentators says, his iguana daemon perched on his shoulder.

His partner rolls his eyes, his starling daemon doing likewise on her perch nearby. “I don’t know about you, but I’d hardly call his daemon a pushover, what with the way she goes straight for the jugular,” he points out.

“Even so, you can’t say her lack of size and speed isn’t a disadvantage. Parson and his daemon basically carried the Zimmermann pair through this last season—literally!” the first commentator emphasizes, showing a picture of Val and Isolde onscreen.

The other commentator looks thoughtful. “So you think Parson’s going first?”

The first one snorts. “I say the Aces franchise would be an idiots to ignore a game-maker of Parson’s caliber, especially one whose daemon would be one of the most valuable in the league. Overall, they’d be the better pick.”

“Mm, I still think Zimmermann Junior’s got him beat as an actual player.”

“Maybe,” the first commentator grudgingly concedes, then sighs. “Let me say what everyone’s thinking, though—if Zimmermann and Parson’s daemons were switched, then there’s no denying Zimmermann would be going first, guaranteed.”

Isolde makes a pained noise, and Jack turns off the t.v.

“…let’s go for a run,” he says.

Isolde nods, and they head down to the gym instead of out the door, because Isolde can’t keep up anymore in her settled form.

Not for the first time, the two of them wish she’d settled as the shape they’d wanted, instead of the shape that fate arbitrarily decided to hand to them—even if, in their most honest moments, Jack and Isolde can admit that it _is_ the one that fits them best.

(So they don’t like themselves very much. Since when is _that_ a new revelation?)

 

___

 

Two nights before the draft, Kenny’s in his bed, fast asleep, and Jack’s in his bathroom, having a panic attack.

“Here,” Isolde says, pushing the bottle they’d stashed away for emergencies into his hand. They had to be more careful at home, more circumspect, but it’d been fine so far. His parents are out at some charity dinner, so it’s just them. They’re safe. They’re good.

Jack opens the bottle and dumps half the contents into his palm, brings his hand up to his mouth, and swallows down, down, _down_.

He closes his eyes and pulls Isolde close, and the two of them huddle as they wait it out, heartrate slowing, limbs finally losing that trembling edge.

Neither of them notice as they slip into unconsciousness, still waiting for the vise around their hearts to loosen, even though it never does, even though it’s always there, no matter how many pills they take.

 

___

 

When they wake up two days later, they’re in the hospital on suicide watch, which Jack would find ridiculously hilarious if it wasn’t in the process of ruining his life. Do the thing that keeps you sane enough to live, get mistaken for trying to kill yourself—what a _joke_.

“If I’d wanted to die, do you think I’d have botched it?” Jack yells. “You can’t do this to me! Today is the fucking draft and I have to be there!”

His parents shake their heads no, no, no, and Jack and Isolde throw their heads back and howl like the wolves they wish they were.

 

___

 

When Kent comes to see him, a day after putting on the jersey that was supposed to be Jack’s, the shoulders too large on his narrow frame—Jack saw the pictures, couldn’t help the bile rising in him to know they wouldn’t ever keep any of their promises now—Jack can’t bear to look him in the eye.

“Shit, Jack, are you okay?” Kent asks, reaching for his hands. “They wouldn’t let me see you—”

Jack pulls away, automatic.

“Jack?” Kent says, dropping his hands, that same scared, uncertain note in his voice that’s been in the voice of his parents and their daemons.

“What are you doing here?” Jack asks, his voice a flat monotone.

Kent blinks at him, confused. “Zimms, what the fuck? What do you think I’m doing here, I—God, Val and I almost _lost_ you two. We—we had to fucking call the ambulance, and your parents weren’t answering their phones, and you weren’t fucking breathing, and—and _Isolde_ almost _disappeared_ , okay! Jesus!”

Kent’s crying now, his face splotchy and his voice breaking all over the place. Jack thinks he should feel sad, or angry, or at the very _some_ kind of upset over, but all he can feel is numbness. He reaches for Isolde, and puts his hand in her fur, solid and real and there. Disappearing? Daemons only did that when they died, and Isolde isn’t dead. Parse must have been wrong.

Jack shudders; he doesn’t think he wants Kent here anymore.

“Talk to me,” Kent pleads, still crying.

“I think you should leave,” Jack says.

Kent sucks in a breath, eyes going wide. “Jack, what—”

“He said leave!” Isolde yells, getting to her feet, nearly crying herself. She’s a mix of guilt and sorrow and regret, choosing to protect Jack over seeking comfort for herself, stupidly loyal as always, even though almost every part of her longs to throw herself at Val, standing hesitantly in the doorway.

Kent looks at Isolde, then looks at Jack, eyes wide and hurt and looking like he wants to protest—

But he turns and he does what Isolde asks, just like always, Val right on his heels.

Jack puts his head in his hands and does his best to ignore Isolde’s keening sobs.

 

___

 

That’s the last they see of them for more than a year.

The next time they meet, Kent will have everything Jack wants, and Jack won’t have anything worth offering, and that’ll be their story for nine years running.

(Figures. Jack’s always known his luck was shit.)

 

___ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	6. the fox comes calling at his door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty’s Eleuthymia settles on a completely ordinary day when he’s twelve-and-three-quarters-of-a-year old. Her form’s honestly not too much of a surprise, considering Coach’s side leans heavy towards canids, and Mama’s side has thrown in more than a few foxes.
> 
> “The Foxy Phelpses, they used to call us,” Aunt Connie tells him, grinning toothily, her own Gaheris a bright spot of red-orange and white-tufted fur in her lap. 
> 
> Bitty smiles tentatively back at her, and doesn’t mention his worry that in all the accounts he’s heard, the Phelps fox has never once shown up linked with a boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Offscreen hockey violence, descriptions of concussion symptoms.

* * *

 

_**CH. 6: the fox comes calling at his door** _

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bitty’s Eleuthymia settles on a completely ordinary day when he’s twelve-and-three-quarters-of-a-year old. Her form’s honestly not too much of a surprise, considering Coach’s side leans heavy towards canids, and Mama’s side has thrown in more than a few foxes.

“The Foxy Phelpses, they used to call us,” Aunt Connie tells him, grinning toothily, her own Gaheris a bright spot of red-orange and white-tufted fur in her lap. 

Bitty smiles tentatively back at her, and doesn’t mention his worry that in all the accounts he’s heard, the Phelps fox has never once shown up linked with a boy.

Probably nobody thinks that it’s anything other than a sign of how he really, _really_ takes after his mama.

Probably.

 

___

 

Elle’s not the usual daemon for a figure skater—swans are more common, as are cranes, deer, the sleek cat or two. All those graceful, elegant forms are what’s preferred when you take to the ice, something that calls to mind still paintings and beautiful motion. Presentation is important in figure skating, and contrast is expected between the skater gliding on the ice and their daemon calmly, serenely keeping pace alongside them. Figure skaters’ daemons are expected to be seen and not heard, and the image they’re supposed to present is one of effortless perfection. Eric—well, he knows Elle doesn’t exactly fit the bill.

Elle…stands out, to say the least. She’s big for a fox, the size of a medium-to-large dog, with sharp eyes, sharp teeth, and burnt-orange fur. She scares the other kids’ daemons sometimes, just by accident, when she walks by them.

“Tell your daemon to stop sneaking up on Briseis!” Calvin Flintchley demands at Junior Regionals, and Eric has to bodily stop Elle from dive-bombing his swan daemon. Somebody manages to capture video of it, though, and Eric is reprimanded for unsportsmanlike behavior.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on her,” Elle growls after the official who came to help break up the fight had left. “I was just minding my own business. It’s not my fault his daemon’s gone half-deaf from all his squealing.”

“ _Elle_.”

“What? It’s true!”

Between that fiasco, Katya moving to Atlanta to be closer to her granddaughter, and Coach’s readily apparent unease with his continued love for that ‘frilly skating thing,’ the move to hockey seemed inevitable. 

 

___

 

Nobody in his family has heard of Samwell before he announces that he’s going there, and to be honest, that’s part of its appeal. That, and ‘one in four.’ Eric doesn’t plan on hiding who he is forever. Might as well go somewhere where he doesn’t have to.

He rethinks this stance five seconds after he meets the hockey team, when one of his teammates—Holster, he thinks he said his name was?—sticks his _thumb_ into the center of the pie Eric brought, pulls it back out, and expresses disappointment when he doesn’t find a blueberry stuck onto the end of it, “you know, like in that one movie.”

Eric has no idea which movie he’s referring to. “But it’s pecan,” he tries explaining instead. “There wouldn’t—there wouldn’t _be_ any blueberries in this one.”

“What, really?” Holster looks at his thumb, frowning, then shrugs. “Bummer.”

Meanwhile, as Eric’s distracted by Holster’s apparent inability to tell apart basic fillings, the rest of the team demolishes what’s left of the pie using a combination of disposable spoons and, taking a page from Holster’s book, their bare hands.

 _What in the living hell_ , Elle says, watching them with horrified eyes. _Have they never heard of basic table manners?_

 _I suppose not_ , Eric says faintly.

 _We’ve got our work cut out for us_ , Elle says, and Eric doesn’t argue, because what would be the point of arguing with God’s honest truth?

 

___

 

A few weeks in, and Eric has a shiny, brand-new hockey name. Elle’s not entirely approving.

“What’s wrong with Eric? It’s a perfectly good name,” she mutters.

“You’re just upset that our initials don’t match anymore,” Bitty points out.

Elle sticks her tongue out but doesn’t refute it, which is how Bitty knows he’s right.

 

___

 

Despite that deeply disturbing first meeting, Bitty and Elle get along quite well with their teammates.

(Well. Most of them. But Bitty’s going to get to _him_ in just a second.)

Bitty didn’t know much about his fellow frogs just yet, but they seemed nice, and so did their daemons. Ollie’s Lestrega was a gray wolf, common enough in hockey, and Bitty hadn’t heard her speak much, but Elle assured him she was talkative enough amongst the team’s daemons, fond of joking around and playing pranks. Wicks’ Tynden, a Canada lynx, was the complete opposite of her human, quiet and serious where he was breezily gregarious.

Holster and his Adlamara, a gigantic Alaskan Malamute, were both friendly and relatively easy to train out of their appalling eating habits. They were frankly a lost cause when it came to fixing their taste buds, though, being largely responsible for the cupboards full of Sriracha sauce, which Holster put on everything—and Bitty meant _everything_.

Ransom was equally welcoming and smart as a whip; his Ogochukwu was even smarter, if prone to standing out, seeing that she’d settled as a cheetah. The form turned out to be every bit as useful as one would expect at the hockey rink, allowing for impressive bursts of speed, if a little lacking in stamina, but Bitty soon came to learn that she was as stress-prone and susceptible to nerves as her owner, at least when it came to their studies.

Johnson, their goalie, had a chameleon named Ananke who spent most of the day sleeping on his shoulder. But she _did_ take the time to open one eye, glance consideringly at Elle, and declare that she was destined to be the middle spoon, which was mildly ominous, but Holster assures them that that was par for the course for the two of them.

Shitty was…Shitty. You either loved him or you hated him, and Bitty chose the former. His Nerysta was a great white pelican, which pretty much said everything you needed to know about him. She was keen-eyed and surprisingly patient, as funny and talkative as her owner, if just as likely to argue with him as agree. When they’d come to collect Bitty for Hazeapalooza, Bitty and Elle could tell it was them before they even opened the door, their bickering carried down the hallway so loudly.

And then—

Then there was Jack Zimmermann, and his Isolde.

 

___

 

The first words out of Jack’s mouth were, “Bittle. You need to eat more protein,” and it only went downhill from there.

And it’s not—Bitty doesn’t _want_ to dislike him. He’s their captain, he’s a very good hockey player, and, after Ransom and Holster’s explanation, he can understand a bit of the pressure that he’s under.

Bitty simply thinks he doesn’t have to be such a _dick_ about it.

At least he cares enough to help Bitty with his checking hang-ups, even if it’s so he doesn’t end up dragging the rest of the team down. Bitty and Elle could do with fewer 4 a.m. checking clinics, though. Goodness, it’s _horrible_ getting up that early in the morning.

“I don’t know how Isolde does it,” Elle mutters, and Bitty nods his agreement. Isolde’s probably the most bearable part of the whole experience, kind and patient and able to direct Elle past her first instincts to jump the boards and go for the throat of whoever’s causing Bitty to panic.

Bitty’s never told anyone this, but sometimes he wishes _he_ were the daemon, and Elle was his human—things would be a lot easier that way, in his opinion. Between the two of them, Elle ended up with all the spunk and the spark—and he’s so proud of her, proud of her confidence and her grace and her spirit. Proud of how unafraid she is to _be_ who she is, proud of how she doesn’t put her head down and stop talking when people tell her to shut up, proud of how she’ll go toe to toe with any daemon she meets, regardless of their size.

If Elle were the human, she’d be checking the daylights out of anyone who got in their way, and that’s plain fact.

But instead it’s Bitty who’s the human, so she’s relegated to the sidelines, snarling as Isolde squares off against her, and talks her down. And Elle _always_ ends up calming down, because it’s _Isolde_. Isolde, with her solid and implacable strength, steady as a rock as she stares their combined frenzy and fear straight in the eye and refuses to get out of the way.

She’s a miracle worker, Isolde is, and Bitty adores that badger of a daemon.

“How someone as sweet as her ended up bound to Jack Zimmermann of all people is completely beyond me,” Bitty mutters, and Elle doesn’t argue, because facts are facts, so what would be the point? 

 

___

 

Even for a daemon, Isolde is unusual in how quiet she is, rarely speaking to other daemons, and almost never to humans. Bitty’s never heard her voice, not even once, and from what Ransom and Holster say, she doesn’t talk directly to anyone but Shitty.

“Don’t take it personally, bro,” Ransom tells him.

“It’s just how she is,” Ogochukwu says, patting Elle’s head with a spotted paw.

“She’s probably prepping for the Show,” Holster adds, Addy nodding sagely beside him. “Apparently the NHL doesn’t like it when daemons talk to humans who aren’t theirs, or something. It’s an etiquette thing, is what we’re saying.”

Bitty and Elle understand—there’re some old-fashioned folks back home in Georgia who think much the same. It just seems a shame that Jack adheres to same rigid beliefs; it’s not right that Isolde, so expressive with her eyes and face and body language, isn’t allowed to speak her mind. Not even here at liberal Samwell, where people and daemons of all shapes and shades, stripes and sizes, can say what they want when they want to.

Bitty watches Isolde and wonders, with an ache in his chest, how much of how she acts is because it’s how she wants to act, and how much of it is because it’s what others expect of her.

(So Bitty may be projecting ever so slightly—so what? It’s not going to hurt anybody except possibly himself if he’s overly sympathetic, and honestly Isolde deserves to have some more attention paid to her, putting up with her mean-hearted jerk of a human as she does.)

 

___

 

When the game versus Yale happens, Bitty is convinced for a fraction of a minute directly beforehand that maybe, _maybe_ Jack Zimmerman isn’t a total jerk. Bitty got a fistbump beforehand, and Mr. Zimmermann was _so_ nice when he congratulated him for his goal after, with Mama and her Gawain almost falling over themselves, they were so star-struck, not that Bitty could much blame them. Dianthe was even more imposing in-person, and the whole time they were talking, Elle kept babbling to him through their bond:

_Oh, my God, it’s Dianthe!_

_Yep_ , Bitty replies, trying to keep his attention on the conversation between his mother and Mr. Bad Bob.

_Four-time Stanley Cup winner Dianthe!_

_Yeah._

_One of the best daemon brawlers in NHL history!_

_Yes._

_It’s_ that _Dianthe!_

_Mmhm._

It’s an experience, to be sure. Too bad Jack doesn’t seem to agree.

“It was a lucky shot, Bittle,” he says, and then he has the audacity to turn and walk away afterwards like he didn’t just gut Bitty and Elle right where they stood.

What makes it worse is that Isolde doesn’t say a word in their defense, simply looks sadly back at them and follows at Jack’s heels, head down and shoulders drooping, her very silence a slap in the face.

“I thought—I thought they were starting to like us,” Elle mumbles, hurt.

Bitty laughs hollowly. “Well, I guess we thought wrong.”

 

___

 

Before break, Bitty comes out of the closet, limbs shaking, index cards in hand as Shitty and Nerysta listen attentively on a bench in the snow. Elle is right by his side the whole time, and as he finally, finally says who and what he is out in the open, afraid but willing to face it, Bitty thinks to himself, _This is how Elle must feel all the time._

Oh. Maybe the universe wasn’t wrong to give them to each other, after all.

 

___

 

After break, Lardo comes back to the Haus like a breath of fresh air, a missing piece falling back into place.

“Yo, nice to meet you,” she says, offering a fist for him to bump as Shitty and the others move further down the hallway.

“Yeah, dude,” her otter daemon says, eyes bright and curious as he looks up at Bitty, “thanks for keeping these dumbasses in line while we were gone.”

Bitty’s smile widens, pleased to meet yet another daemon who flaunts the no-talking-to-strange-humans rule as easily as Elle does. “Oh, don’t worry about it!” he tells him. “It wasn’t any trouble at all. And it’s absolutely lovely to meet you, too! Elle and I have heard so much about you.”

“Even _if_ the boys neglected to mention your human wasn’t a 6’2” white dude,” Elle says aloud, rolling her eyes.

The otter grins slyly. “Yeah, we get that a lot,” he says, then nudges forward to bop noses with Elle. “Name’s Alexander.”

“I’m Eleuthymia, but please call me Elle.”

Lardo grins. “Cool.”

Bitty claps his hands. “Now, since we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way, I was hoping you would tell me what your favorite pie flavor was…?” he says. “I’d love to make you something special to welcome you back.”

Lardo exchanges a look with her daemon, then turns back to Bitty. “You know, I think I’m going to like you,” she pronounces. 

Bitty feels matching grins spread across his and Elle’s faces.

 

___

 

The coaches, for some inexplicable reason, put him on Jack’s line.

For an even more inexplicable reason, it _works_.

 

___

 

The other thing about Isolde and Jack that makes them different is something most of Samwell doesn’t really discuss.

The thing is, Jack and Isolde can separate without either of them being in pain.

“When they tested it, they went twenty miles before Isolde decided she wanted to go back,” Shitty tells him. “It could be further, but they didn’t see the point of verifying, so twenty miles it is.”

“Does—does Jack have a witch in his family tree?” Elle asks, confused.

Nerysta winces. “Ah. Not quite.”

“But they aren’t— _severed_ , are they?” Bitty asks, and Elle immediately presses her body closer to his as if to instinctively ward off the word and all it entails.

“No, no,” Shitty rushes to assure them. “It’s just—well. Do you remember how Jack—”

“—overdosed before he came here?” Nerysta finishes, blunt as ever, when Shitty uncharacteristically hesitates.

Bitty and Elle nod.

“Well, part of the ritual witches undergo in order to separate involves simulating death,” Shitty explains.

“Temporarily, obviously,” Nerysta adds.

Shitty nods. “And Jack and Isolde—well.”

_Oh._

Bitty and Elle flinch as the realization hits them: Jack and Isolde managed to die long enough for the cord between them to loosen its grip enough that distance no longer affects them the way it does other.

 _That’s_ awful, Elle says, horrified.

“You get the picture,” Nerysta says, cataloguing their expressions shrewdly.

Bitty and Elle nod yet again, any words they could possibly say numb in their throats.

“So, yeah,” Shitty says. “That’s why we don’t talk about it.”

“And why we don’t let anybody else talk about it either,” Nerysta adds, casually firm.

“We just figured we needed to give you the rundown, since you’re on the team, and we trust you to be a good guy,” Shitty explains.

Elle and Bitty startle. “We won’t tell anybody about this,” Bitty promises. “And we’ll—we’ll make sure people don’t get the wrong idea, either.”

Shitty and Nerysta give them matching looks of relief. “’Swawesome, bro,” Shitty says, ruffling his hair. “Knew we could count on you.”

Bitty bites his tongue, and doesn’t say anything more.

(This is the first of Jack Zimmermann’s unspoken truths that Bitty is given to carry; it won’t be the last.)

 

___

 

Bitty never figured Jack and Isolde’s ability to separate would matter to him and Elle, but it quickly becomes relevant when he’s put on Jack’s line. Elle isn’t big enough to haul Isolde comfortably behind her on the sled, so the coaches ask Jack if he and Isolde could put their skills to use.

“If Isolde stays behind to block, Elle’s got enough speed to follow you and Bittle without interference. We should take advantage of that,” Coach Murray tells a pissed-off-looking Jack, Bitty overhearing them from his place by his stall.

And, well, the coaches are right. Together, they’re faster, they’re better, and Bitty helps his team win game after game on Jack’s line—

Right up until playoffs. Right up until his concussion.

 

___

 

Bitty wakes up in the hospital, apparently for the third time, though he can’t remember the other two.

“You idiot,” Elle tells him—it’s hard to focus on her, seeing how he keeps seeing double, but he tries. His head hurts something awful, and so does his wrist for some reason, but it’s a bad idea to ignore Elle when she’s mad. “You idiot, don’t you ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” Bitty slurs, already slipping back under.

Later, when he sees the video of the hit, he realizes the pain in his wrist was from Elle—she sprained it when she attacked the daemon of the player who checked him. That was to be expected; what surprised Bitty is that Isolde was right behind her, even though the game was still going. Isolde _never_ forgets to put the game first, but there she is, racking up a penalty because Bitty didn’t dodge in time and got himself concussed.

“Thank you,” he tells her later, and she looks up at him, her eyes obviously conflicted. Bitty expects her to turn to Elle and have her relay her words, the way she always does, but instead she shocks the hell out of him by opening her mouth and saying, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, my God,” Bitty says, staring at her in shock.

Isolde wilts further beneath his gaze. “I’m really sorry,” she says again, soft-voiced and surprisingly high-pitched, a contrast to Jack’s usual angry grumbling. Jack, for his own part, is keeping silent, letting his daemon talk without interference, though he watches Bitty with an intensity that throws Bitty off-balance. “I should’ve—we should’ve had your back,” she says. “We should’ve kept our word.”

“Oh, honey, don’t even worry about—”

“No,” she interrupts, her black eyes intense, her snout raised so she’s looking right at him. “No. We’re going to do better. I promise.”

Bitty bites his lip, looks up at Jack, wondering what he’s making of all this. Wonder of wonders, Jack only nods and echoes his daemon’s words.

And, well. After that speech, is it any wonder he and Elle end up voting for Jack and Isolde as their captains again?

 

___

 

“Eat more protein,” Jack says, smirking, Isolde bright-eyed at his heels.

“You have a good summer, too, y’all,” Bitty says, and Isolde starts laughing at the same time Elle does.

It’s a good goodbye.

 

___

 

Sophomore year is interesting, to say the least. For one thing, they’ve got an interesting batch of frogs this year. A lot of… _colorful_ personalities. Bitty gets assigned Chowder, who is honestly the most optimistic and energetic person he’s ever met, upbeat and genuinely excited about everything. His daemon, Xú Feng, is a flying squirrel, and, in a reversal of the usual roles, _Chowder’s_ the one who talks to other daemons on her behalf.

“She’s really, really shy,” Chowder cheerfully explains to a worried Elle, Xú Feng hiding in the pocket of his hoodie. “She gets scared of saying the wrong thing on accident, so she doesn’t say anything at all. But don’t worry, she’ll start talking as soon as she gets to know you!”

“That’s good,” Elle says relieved, wagging her tail. “Here, please give her this blanket. We made sure it was small enough for her.”

“Wow, thanks!”

Dex isn’t nearly so easy-going, being the prickly, hot-tempered sort, but Elle has high hopes for his daemon, Julietta, a greyhound.

“A bit high-strung, but she means well,” is Elle’s pronouncement, then amends herself: “Well, unless it comes to Kye.”

Kye is Nursey’s rattlesnake daemon, whom Nursey instructs everyone to refer to “—either by she/her or they/them pronouns, whatever floats your boat.” He shrugs, Kye hissing in friendly assent from their place wrapped loosely over his shoulders and around his throat. Shitty apparently knew the two of them back in Andover, so Bitty knows they’re good people—it’s just unlikely that they’ll start getting along with Dex and Julietta any time soon.

Bickering frogs are the least of his problems, though—Bitty’s charmed his way into a senior seminar, and he plans to make the most of it, procrastination be damned. Jack’s in it, too, and Bitty’s quite looking forward to it.

 

___

 

Four months in, and he and Elle deeply regret that decision.

“Why?” Elle moans from her place across his lap. “Why do we always fall for the straight ones?”

Bitty pats her head in commiserative consolation.

 

___

 

Then Epikegster 2014 happens, and their lives are never the same.

It starts like this:

One second, Bitty and Elle are standing by the wall, telling each other privately to stop making heart-eyes at Jack and Isolde, largely to no avail. The next, Jack offers to take a selfie with them—

—and then someone interrupts, saying, “I wouldn’t believe it if I weren’t seeing it myself—Jack Zimmermann. At a party. _Taking a selfie.”_

When Bitty turns around, Kent Parson is standing there, smirking right at them.

“Oh, my gosh!” Bitty says, pleasantly surprised. Bitty didn’t know much about hockey, but he knew a thing or two about Kent Parson, captain of the Las Vegas Aces, generational talent, and the human bonded to Elle’s celebrity crush, not that she’d ever admit it.

 _Oh my GOD_ , Elle shrieks in his head, already scrambling to her feet, vibrating in excitement as she sees who’s standing next to Kent. _It’s VALKYRIA PARSON! I am about to EXPIRE!_

“Kent,” Jack says, an odd note in his voice—Bitty only remembers that later, too caught up in the moment to really register it. Kent Parson’s eyes flash when he hears it, and he opens his mouth to say something, except someone else gets there first:

“Val,” a voice bursts out, and for a second Bitty can’t even think who it is, doesn’t even register that it’s _Isolde_ who spoke until she stumbles forward, eyes gleaming brighter than Bitty’s ever seen them.

Kent Parson’s Valkyria moves to meet her, nothing but sinuous, powerful grace as she strides toward Isolde. Something in Bitty seizes up on instinct, the vestigial prey animal in him shrieking warning alarms at the sight of her, and before he even knows it, Elle is launching herself protectively between Isolde and the lioness.

Valkyria stops short, a look of surprise on her face; Isolde, unfortunately, doesn’t, and ends up barreling into Elle, and the two of them roll forward like a particularly ungainly ball of fur and limbs.

They land right at Valkyria’s feet.

“Hi,” squeaks Elle from where she’s trying to untangle herself from Isolde, and largely failing. “Um—oh, my goodness—um, I’m such a fan?”

Valkyria and Kent Parson laugh, completely in-sync, and Bitty feels his cheeks heat in mortification. Elle’s been doing a lot better at not chattering inanely at people she doesn’t know, but she still slips up when she’s nervous—like right this moment, actually. “Just kill me now,” Bitty feels more than hears her murmur.

Valkyria tilts her head, amused. “Oh, no,” she purrs, a low, lovely rumble from deep in her chest. “Why would we ever do something like that, especially to one of our admirers?” She tilts her head up at Bitty, and _winks_.

Bitty feels himself choke a little.

“Oh—ah—you heard that, haha,” Elle says, finally extricating herself from Isolde. She hops a little to the side, fur sticking up in parts, giggling nervously. “I’m Elle, sorry about all that excitement, I was just _completely_ caught by surprise, uh, Miss, uh—”

“Call me Valkyria,” the daemon says smoothly as she moves over and nudges Isolde to her feet. Once Isolde is steady, she bends her head down and nuzzles behind her ears affectionately, for all intents and purposes entirely unconcerned with their audience. “Hey, Izzy,” she murmurs, “didja miss me?”

Isolde inhales shakily and leans against the larger daemon. “Val,” she says again, instead of answering the question. Or maybe it _is_ the answer; Bitty wouldn’t know. He’s never heard her sound like this before in the year and change since he’s known her and Jack.

Valkyria’s whole demeanor softens. “Hey, Izz,” she says again, a quiet, tender thing.

“Kent,” Jack says sharply right afterwards, interrupting the two daemons and causing Isolde to spring away from Valkyria. “What are you doing here?”

Kent smirks, perfectly casual. “Just dropping in on an old friend,” he says, and makes to say more, except someone in the crowd—Bitty suspects Dex—yells, “Oh, my _God_ , is that _Kent Parson?”_

—and all hell breaks loose.

 

___

 

In the midst of the sudden scramble for Kent Parson’s attention, Bitty manages to snag a selfie with the man—albeit one a bit too close to that awful green couch for comfort, but needs must.

 _We have a selfie with_ Valkyria Parson, Elle says, sounding dreamy even after they spent a few minutes dancing off their excitement, and Bitty chuckles.

 _Pay attention, hon, we gotta make sure nobody’s broken into our room,_ Bitty answers.  Elle makes a face at him, Bitty makes a face back, and they duck down under the caution tape together.

“Oh,” Elle says aloud a second later, white-tipped ears perking up in surprise, and then she stops dead in her tracks.

“What is it?” Bitty murmurs to her, looking around for an intruder.

Elle’s eyes slide on over to Jack’s door, and she starts walking down the hallway, practically hugging the wall as she does so with her ears tilted back, low to her skull. She looks the way she does whenever they caught Mama and Coach fighting, and Bitty gets an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

 _Elle,_ he tells her, but she ignores him and stops right in front of Jack’s door, still listening intently. Through their bond, Bitty starts hearing it, too:

Jack and Kent’s voices, slightly raised and getting louder, and louder, and louder, until—

“Fuck, Jack! What do you want me to say? That I miss you? I _miss_ you, okay? …I miss you.”

A shuddering breath, and, after it (so quiet Bitty almost thinks he made it up, except he knows he must’ve heard it through Elle’s sharper ears, and she _never_ hears wrong), Isolde’s voice whispers, “We miss you, too.”

Right over it, heedless of her words, Jack snaps, “You always say that.”

And, well—to say that what happens next is an unmitigated disaster of epic proportions would be the understatement of the year: Kent’s yelling at Jack, Jack’s yelling at Kent, and Valkyria’s yelling at them both, her roars tinged with an edge of panic, and Isolde—

Isolde’s not saying anything at all. Bitty and Elle can’t even hear her breathing.

Then the door opens, and Bitty and Elle are caught red-handed. Bitty watches, utterly speechless, as Kent pulls himself together with remarkable aplomb, spits out an absolutely devastating parting shot, and starts for the stairs.

Valkyria doesn’t follow him.

“Val,” Kent says warningly, not bothering to turn around, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“No,” Valkyria answers, her eyes still locked on Isolde. “Izzy—”

“You should go,” Isolde says, standing beside Jack with her eyes downcast. “You should—you should leave.”

Elle lets out a startled yip, darting protectively in front of Bitty as Valkyria bears her fangs and slams a foot down onto the floor, claws gouging the wood. “Can you fucking say something else for once?” Valkyria howls, so loud it’s a miracle no one downstairs hears them. “Izzy, please, _come on_ —”    

“Will you listen to me! Just _go!”_ Isolde screams, louder than either Bitty or Elle’s ever heard her. _“I don’t want you here!”_

Silence reigns for a long, long moment. Bitty and Elle don’t dare move, afraid to break it.

On the landing, Kent laughs bitterly, still staring straight ahead. “Yeah, Val, didn’t you get the memo? We’re not welcome here. You want to stay behind and waste your time, fine by me, but I’m leaving.” He starts walking down the stairs, never once looking back.

With one last anguished glance at Isolde, Valkyria finally, finally turns and follows him.

Isolde and Jack watch her go.

“Jack—” Bitty starts to say, but Jack only shakes his head, scoops up Isolde, and slams his door shut behind them.

“Oh, no,” Elle says, darting forward and pressing her nose to the wood, ample worry bleeding through their bond. “Oh, no.”

They stay there for minutes longer, but the door never opens.

 

___  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you’d like! ^^
> 
> (For those curious, yes, Ransom and Holster's daemons were inspired by achilleees’ wonderful, wonderful NurseyDexParse fic, [you got me wanting you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328828). :)


	7. his heart in his chest is a wild thing beating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Val refuses to talk to Kent for two whole months after that stupid party at Jack’s frat house.
> 
> “Val,” Kent says in the car after, feeling her radiating anger and pain, her emotions filling the gaping cavern of his, coming up jagged and raw against his hollowed-out insides.
> 
>  _“No,”_ she tells him, and it’s the last thing she says for sixty-two days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: The Aces' management being less than accepting, offscreen hockey violence, and a whole chapter's worth of angst, occasionally interrupted by humor.

* * *

 

_**CH. 7: his heart in his chest is a wild thing beating** _

 

* * *

 

 

Val refuses to talk to Kent for two whole months after that stupid party at Jack’s frat house.

“Val,” Kent says in the car after, feeling her radiating anger and pain, her emotions filling the gaping cavern of his, coming up jagged and raw against his hollowed-out insides.

“ _No_ , _”_ she tells him, and it’s the last thing she says for sixty-two days.

 

___

 

The fact of the matter is, the NHL life is a lot harder on Val than Kent ever expected.

In hindsight, he realizes that most of the players’ daemons are talked _about,_ but they aren’t really expected to talk themselves.

Their rookie year, they found this out the hard way when their captain, Vorsey, took them aside.

“Hey,” Vorsey said, and Kent and Val had both looked at him, snapping to attention. They had a lot of expectations riding on them, and they could _not_ afford to fuck it up if they ever expected to carve out a space for Jack and Izzy to fill beside them someday. “We need to talk.”

 _Well, shit_ , Kent had thought, and bit his tongue.

“Yes, sir?” Val said for them both, and Vorsey had winced a little.

“That,” he said, “that right there. That’s what we need to talk about.”

Val and Kent had looked at each other, confused. “About us calling you ‘sir’?” Kent had ventured. Maybe Vegas wanted a more informal team—Kent could work with that. He could be casual if they needed him to be.

“No,” Vorsey said. “It’s about the fact that your daemon talks to people at all.”

Kent and Val had blinked.

Vorsey gestured to his own daemon, a beautiful jaguar named Gloriandette. “Have you ever heard Glory talk?” he asked.

“No,” Kent said, puzzled.

“Yes, of course,” Val said at the same time.

Vorsey had smiled at her, but his eyes looked sad. They remembered that, later. “Of course she talks to you, Val,” he said gently, “but she doesn’t talk to anyone else. Daemons aren’t supposed to talk to humans who aren’t theirs, or who aren’t members of their family. If she needs to let somebody know something, then I’ll do the talking for her.”

Kent and Val had glanced at each other, Kent worrying at his lip. “But—back in the Q, they didn’t mind so much,” he hazarded.

“Juniors is juniors,” Vorsey said firmly. “The Show’s a different arena entirely. You’re not a boy anymore, son, you’re a team player, and team players don’t let their daemons hog the spotlight. Valkyria’s already unusual enough as it is—you really don’t want anybody focusing on her. It’ll just make it harder for her in the long run.”

Val swallowed hard, but she nodded, and Kent said, on both of their behalves, “Okay.”

Vorsey patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Parson, your Valkyria can talk plenty to any daemon on the team,” he assured them, Glory lashing her tail in agreement at his side, nudging Val companionably with her snout. “We just have to let the girls have their girl talk, yeah? It’s not our place to interfere.”

“Yeah,” Kent said, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach.

So Val had cut back on her talking, kept it strictly to the other daemons except for when they were at home. And that—that was doable. Maybe they cheated a little now and then, but Scrappy was Russian and they did things a little differently over there. He and his tiger, Svetlana, didn’t mind if Val skipped the middleman every so often and traded terrible puns with him directly. And Swoops, one of the other rookies, was the same age and adjusting to the same kind of thing, and he and Coramaris, who’d settled as a cougar, were also of the opinion that it was a stupid tradition and something they were going to get rid of once _they_ were the veterans.

So. It was manageable. It wasn’t too much, wasn’t too stressful—just different. They could handle that. They _did_ handle that; in fact, they handled it so well that they took home the Calder their rookie year.

Then the year after that, the Aces took home the Cup. Vorsey retired right after, and, to Kent and Val’s complete fucking surprise, management decided they were doing a good enough job that they got the C.

“Uh, has everybody forgotten that I’m, like, two months shy of turning twenty?” Kent asked Swoops afterward.

Swoops just laughed, knocked him on the shoulder. “Dude, who else would have gotten it? Fucking Viney?”

“We were thinking maybe Chopper,” Val said, still dazed.

Maris had shaken her head, tawny eyes glinting in the low lights of Swoops’ living room. “No,” she said, “you got us the Cup. You should’ve gotten the C. Everybody agreed.”

“Okay,” Kent said faintly. “If you guys say so.”

And the thing was, he and Val were _good_ at it. They’d been pretty good being Izzy and Jack’s A’s, and being the C was just taking that a step further. It was keeping up morale, running strategy efficiently between the coaches and the guys on the ice and the bench, and giving really fucking kick-ass locker room speeches pre- and post-games, if he did say so himself. It was also making sure everybody got home safe after a hard loss, and an evening spent drowning their sorrows in drink. It was reminding Chopper that his fiancée’s birthday was coming up and to get her something that wasn’t a fucking blender. It was making sure Gopher didn’t accidentally kill any of their teammates. It was checking in on the rookies every couple weeks, it was asking after Viney’s grandma when she was in the hospital, it was offering to help babysit Scrappy’s nieces when they were in town. It was Val going for the throat of anybody who went for Maris on the sidelines, it was always having Erra’s back during games, it was letting Xio cry into her fur whenever she got too homesick and never telling a goddamn soul. 

It was looking after their people, their pride, and there wasn’t anybody better at that than them.

Somehow, though, even that wasn’t quite good enough for everybody.

Their GM took them aside one day, one year into being a captain, and Kent and Val took one look at his face and felt their stomach sink to their respective knees. He looked just like Vorsey did, the day they decided to take away Val’s voice, and they knew they weren’t going to like what happened next.

“Parson,” he said, “we need to talk.”

So he talked. Kent and Val nodded. And they left that meeting agreeing that, okay, yes, as captain he was the face of the Aces. They were plastering him and Val all over the damn arena, so there was some truth to that. His merchandise sold the most, he got the most time with the press, the Aces were always trotting him out for all their charity events and their social media things, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Bottom line was, since he was the face, wouldn’t it be a good thing if he and Val did a little bit more to put everybody at ease?

“You look…unsettling,” Graham told him. “When you do an interview and Val’s nowhere to be seen, you can see why people might think it looks strange.”

“She got injured last game,” Kent said, protesting. “She was over at the infirmary.”

“Yes, but—”

Kent thinks that’s when he really started to hate that phrase:

‘Yes, but—’ meant ‘you’re good, but you’re not good enough,’ meant ‘you need to try harder,’ meant ‘please stop being a freak, you’re scaring the fans.’

So that was that. Didn’t matter that he was descended from witches, didn’t matter that the ability to separate for fifty feet without breaking into a sweat won them more games than he could count, didn’t matter that that he and Val weren’t torn apart, weren’t _severed_.

They looked like they were, and, apparently, looks were all that mattered.

So Val stops being further than ten feet away from Kent when they’re off the ice. She’s always by his side, or within arm’s reach, or close enough to touch.

It’s fine. They can handle it. They’ve _been_ handling it.

So what if some days it feels like a cage? So what if it feels like somebody’s trapping them, feels like what they think clipping their wings would feel if they had them?

It’s manageable. It’s fine. They’re fine. They can’t afford to fuck this up, so they nod and they smile and they play their game and they make themselves so fucking indispensable that it’d be tantamount to suicide to cut them loose.

They make themselves the best, and it has to be enough.

It _has to be_.

 

___

 

When they’re twenty-two, Kent and Val take their team to the Stanley Cup finals for the third time, and then boom—they’ve got their name on the trophy twice. Suck on that, haters.

They spend their second Cup Day at home in Ithaca, eating Cocoa Puffs right at his mom’s brand-new kitchen table, taking pictures at their childhood rink, and sticking Fortindair in the Cup with his wings spread wide, Carrie on one side, and Val on the other, creating their own Parson family coat-of-arms.

And maybe he’s missing Jack, yeah, but the game plan’s still on, isn’t it? Maybe he hasn’t been returning his calls lately, but he’s probably just busy. He’s going to college, getting himself a degree while getting back into shape, and maybe playing at the NCAA level is kind of a joke, but if that’s what Jack needs right now, okay. Okay. It’s good to have a back-up plan, yeah?

(Kent ignores the voice that screams that this sounds less like a back-up plan and more like the life route that Jack’s carving out for himself—play in college, get a coaching job, and coast by on the combined weight of his pedigree and his skills.

That’s not what’s going to happen. There’s no way Jack’s giving up on his dream, and his dream has always been to play in the NHL—always.

Jack’s not a quitter, so Kent’s won’t quit on him. Jack’s going to get his shit together, and then he’s going to make it to the Show, and Kent’s going to be right here, waiting for him.)

 

___

 

August rolls around, and missing Jack gets to be less of an ache and more like something clawing him open from the inside out, his organs shredding themselves from the force of his want. Val’s just the same, pacing restlessly back and forth through their house, driving Purrs nuts with the way she can’t stay still.

“Kent,” she says, tail lashing, eyes looking out the east-facing windows. “Kent, it’s been more than a fucking year.”

“Val—” he warns.

“I’m going to see her,” Val tells him, making for the door. “I’ll drag your sorry ass every step of the way if I have to, but I’m going to see her.”

Kent wavers, checks his phone a second time. A third. Still no new messages, no new voicemails. Maybe Val’s right, maybe letting this radio silence hold isn’t doing them any fucking good. Zimms and Izzy always _did_ get weird if they went without seeing each other for too long—they forgot that Kent and Val would fucking drop everything to see them if they had to, would hitchhike across states and national borders if they said they needed them. They didn’t like being a burden, and maybe that’s the thought they’ve got stuck in their heads. Maybe they think that Kent and Val are better off without them, and that’s why they haven’t replied.

“Kent,” Val says, her eyes green and otherworldly, the way they get during mornings like this, when the sun hasn’t quite yet risen and everything is hushed and gray and quiet, the air heavy with all the possibilities yet to be.

“Okay,” Kent hears himself say, setting one of those possibilities into motion. “Let’s go see them.”

 

___

 

It goes—not well. Not well at all. Jack’s angry, defensive, and Kent can’t figure out why until one of Jack’s snide remarks manages to blindside him, cut him deep.

“What, you think you’re better than me?” Jack spits out, Isolde silent and still beside him, her shoulders hunched but not saying a word to defend them. “I’m sorry to tell you, Parson, but everybody knows you were the fucking second choice, you arrogant, self-centered—”

 _Shit_ , Val tells him through their bond, as shocked as Kent is. _Oh, fuck, he’s_ jealous. _He thinks we’re here to rub it in, the fact that we’re_ —

 _What, two-time Stanley Cup champions?_ Kent says, so hysterically horrified that he’s circled back around to deadpan sarcasm.

 _—yeah. And he’s not. He’s here_ , Val says. _He thinks we’re going to leave him behind._

And that’s—that’s so fucking far from the truth that Kent can’t even think of how to fix this, how to make him see that they won’t, that they’re _not_ , that Zimms&Parse and Izzy&Val have always been and will always be endgame for them.

“Jack,” he says, his voice breaking, “Jack, that’s not why I’m here, that’s not—I don’t think that all, Jack, I just wanted to, I wanted—”

“Wanted what?” Jack shouts, punching the wall of his shitty frat room, looking like nothing so much as a wild thing trapped in a cage, and Kent wants to get him out, wants to get him free, wants to get him where he belongs, always, right next to him, breathing free and easy on the ice—

“What the fuck could you possibly want? There’s nothing here for you!” Jack yells.

 _There’s everything here for me_ , Kent wants to say, but the walls are thin, and he’s already worrying about damage control, about what people might leave here saying. There’s a party going on right downstairs, and Jack’s got a rep for being a drug addict, for being volatile, for being the opposite of a sure thing, and a drunken shouting match with an NHL captain is _not_ going to help with that.

“I came here because I wanted to see you,” Kent tells him, lowering his voice, willing him to remember. Isolde sways forward, as if trying to hear him better, and he drops his gaze to look her right in the eye. “I miss you, okay? That’s why I’m here.”

Jack closes his eyes, a look of agony on his face, and Kent would give anything to know how to fix this, what the magic words are to get him out of his head, to make him _understand_ —

“Leave,” Jack says, and Val growls in denial, getting ready to dig her heels in, getting ready to just lay down on the floor and make Jack _drag_ her out if she has to, make him put his hands on her and _force_ her to leave, because that’s the only way she and Kent are going.

Then Izzy says, “Please.”

It’s the only thing she’s said all night. ‘Please,’ she asks, and they’ve never been able to tell her no, not Izzy, not their best girl—

And so they leave. It tears them apart to do it, but they will if they have to, they’ll always do what Izzy and Jack need them to do. So they bolt down the stairs two at a time, make a run straight for the shitty back door of this shitty house, and—

Well, then they collapse on the porch for a bit, mostly because it feels like somebody’s ripped their heart out and stomped on it, and they honestly never expected it to be Jack. Not on _purpose_ , Jack’s supposed to be on _their_ side, he’s not supposed to _forget_ that, forget everything that Kent ever fucking promised him—

“Hey, you okay?” somebody asks, and it’s—

“Hey,” Kent says, pasting a smile on his face, knowing that as far as masks go, it’s probably horseshit, but he’s got nothing else right now. “Shitty, right?”

“Yeah, bro,” the guy says, eyeing him concernedly. His pelican daemon is perched precariously on the nearby railing, looking equally worried as she probably talks to val. “You wanna maybe step inside again for a bit?”

“No,” Kent bites out, too fast, too vehement, and Shitty’s brows go up. “I mean,” Kent says, sighing, running a tired hand over his face. He feels too old for this, which is a total joke, considering he’s not even twenty-five years old yet. Is it possible to go through quarter-life crises? Maybe that’s what’s happening to him and Jack. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Ooookay,” Shitty says, obviously skeptical, but willing to humor him, and Kent’s smile gets a little bit more real, fed by genuine amusement. “If you say so, dude. I’m just saying, the couch is yours if you want it. Hell, you’re Kent motherfucking Parson—I’m sure any of the boys here would gladly take the couch themselves and hand over their bed to you, and that’s saying a fucking lot. You ever tried to get between a hockey player and a comfy, soft horizontal surface with a lot of pillows?”

“Occasionally, yeah,” Kent says dryly.

“Then you know! We take sleep very seriously around here,” Shitty says, his daemon nodding her head in agreement. “So, if you want to stay the night, feel free.”

“Can’t,” Kent says, shrugging, getting some of his equilibrium back. “Booked an early flight.” Which was a blatant lie—he thought Zimms would let him crash here, thought maybe he could soothe the parched aching in his bones and touch him skin to skin, run his fingers through Isolde’s fur and feel Jack do the same with Val, centering themselves in each other, the way they’ve always done.

He’d booked a flight for the day after tomorrow. He’d thought they’d get a whole day together.

Well. He’d been wrong, obviously.

“Okay, bro, if you’re sure,” Shitty says, nodding amiably, and Kent appreciates that he’s not trying to push or pry. He tosses him a nod goodbye and starts down the steps, Val gracefully walking just ahead of him.

He stops at the bottom, though, hesitating for a second before deciding to just fuck it. “Hey,” he says, turning around, “would you mind checking in on Jack for me? I think he—well, we argued a bit. I just wanna make sure that he’s, you know,” Kent throws in a shrug for maximum bro-y casualness, “okay.”

He doesn’t think he’s fooled Shitty for a second. “No worries, man,” Shitty says. “I was heading up there anyway.”

“Thanks,” Kent says, and he means it.

“You’re good, dude,” Shitty says, and Kent bites back the urge to say that he’s really, really not, just shoots the guy a two-fingered salute and gets the hell out of there.

 

___

 

That’s the last Kent and Val see of Jack and Izzy for two years straight.

Then the stupid kegster happens, and that’s—well. That’s the end of any shred of hope Kent had left over that Jack felt even _remotely_ the same, and he knows, he _knows_ that it’s on him this time. It’s his fault, he ruined it, he fucking _demolished_ all his dreams with his own two hands, and for what? For _what?_

Kent keeps circling back around and around the moment that tipped him over the edge:

It wasn’t even anything Jack said so much as it was the look on his face, the way his eyes had gone so cold and angry, the way his mouth had curled in disgust when Kent said he missed him—

It wasn’t anything so much as the realization that he’d been reading him wrong this entire time, running a completely different play without even knowing it.

Six years. Six years of sacrifice, of loneliness, of empty nights and emptier beds, of searing guilt any time he _did_ let somebody else close. Six years of swallowing down his pride and his desire and every fucking urge to call Jack just to hear his voice. Six years of playing the game, convinced that it would be worth it all, that every piece of himself that he gave up would be repaid ten times over, because maybe he wouldn’t get those bits back again, but he’d get Jack.

He’d have Jack again, and that—that would’ve been worth every fucking thing he had to give, except apparently Jack doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want him.

Now, isn’t _that_ a kick in the teeth?

 

___

 

So Kent stops talking to Jack, and Val stops talking to Kent.

She just…won’t. Any time he tries to talk to her, any time he even tries to go near her, she just gets up and leaves. The only time she even stays in the same room as him is when they’re at practice.

“Is something up?” Scrappy asks him, worried.

“Do you want Erra to try and talk to her?” Chopper gently asks.

“If you want to offer my services to curse her enemies as an apology gift, just let me know, Parsley,” Gopher says.

“Dude, just fucking get over yourself and grovel already,” Swoops contributes, but even his blunt words can’t hide the concern in his eyes.

“Bro,” is all that Viney says, wincing.

“It’s fine,” Kent says to each of them, to all of them. Maybe if he says it enough times, it’ll eventually be true.

 

___

 

Strategy Ignore Everything That’s Wrong With Both Yourself and Your Life blows up in his face the fifth game they play after fighting with Jack.

He’s in the locker room after a pretty fucking brutal loss, putting his media face on, talking the talk about putting up a good fight, can’t win ’em all, the boys did their best, etc., etc.

“Do you think there’s any weight to the rumors that you’re losing your touch?” a reporter in the back says, and the whole room laughs like it’s a joke, but the fucker’s voice was serious, and Kent knows that he’s out for blood.

“Nah,” he starts to say, but somebody else gets there first.

“I don’t know, but considering that we’re on a twenty-six game point streak, I think our record speaks for itself,” says the voice that he knows better than his own, sarcastic and biting and every decibel of it stuffed chock-full of ‘Can you believe the nerve of this fucking tool?’ levels of disbelief.

The room goes quiet for a bit as everybody turns to look at Valkyria, lounging the requisite fifteen feet away from Kent, as far as she can possibly get while still adhering to the bounds of politeness and normalcy.

She bares her teeth at them all. “What? None of you’ve ever heard a daemon speak before? Cat got your tongue?” She looks between her paws, stretching out her claws, putting on a show. “Ooh, nope, looks like I don’t!”

The room breaks out into nervous laughter, and the interview resumes.

Val doesn’t speak again that day, but she does at the next game. And the next. And the game after that. Val also starts standing further and further away from him at practices, and during workouts, and when they’re out and about in Vegas. She starts striking up conversations with strangers, and talking directly to their teammates, and cussing out their daemon opponents out loud and their human opponents directly.

Whatever truce she abided by between herself and Aces’ management is apparently out the window now that Kent’s fucked up his one reliable mode of compensation, a.k.a. the promise that someday she and Izzy were going to get to live together in the same damn city and play hockey on the same damn team and basically be together for the rest of their damn lives.

The Aces’ management originally freaks the hell out and treats the entire thing like a disaster of epic proportions, but after a ton of positive feedback from the fans—some of whom have started a twitter account posting quotes and clips of chirps Val’s said to the other teams’ daemons, and their players, and even the referees now and then—they settle down and have decided to treat it like a golden PR opportunity.

“She’s quirky,” their media team tells management, most of whom have started permanently frowning any time Kent and Val are in the vicinity. Kent’s genuinely trying to give a fuck, but he has a no-trade clause and he’s only three years into a seven-year contract, so what the fuck are they going to do? Bench him? Let the team lose their play-off berth because his daemon runs her mouth? “The fans love her. It’s not much of a problem, honestly, and Parson’s enough of a wild card that it works out in the Aces’ favor.”

“Okay,” their GM says, eyeing Val doubtfully. “Let’s give it a shot.”

In the privacy of his head, Kent snorts. What were they planning to do stop her, put a muzzle on her? Like hell would he have let them. Val would have done exactly as she pleased for as long as she wanted to do it. Twenty-four years spent living beside her has only drilled that fact into his head.

So, that’s one upside to this whole mess—Val actually gets to start acting like herself again in public, with no negative consequences on their career or their reputation. And Kent only had to torpedo their personal life to achieve it.

Go figure.

 

___

 

On the sixty-third day, Kent takes a bad hit on the ice. Wasn’t anybody’s fault, really—just the angle and the momentum and really shitty luck, but, well—there goes the next three weeks.

He wakes up in the hospital, bleary-eyed, his mouth feeling like it’s been stuffed full of cotton, that weird antiseptic taste lingering on the back of his tongue.

“Kent,” his favorite voice says, the voice that he knows better than his own, the voice that he’s been missing all these days.

Funny thing—he would’ve thought that his favorite voice was Jack’s, once, but if there’s anything these past two months have taught him, it’s that he actually _does_ still love his own soul more than anything else. It feels wrong to say, feels wrong to even think, but it’s _true_.

“Val,” he croaks, reaching out his hand, feeling her head come up to meet him, and he could weep from the first glide of his fingers through her fur, something in him shuddering an quaking, like that first bloom of green in the desert following a thunderstorm.

“You idiot,” she says, voice cracking. “You idiot, you’re supposed to leave the fighting to _me_ _.”_

“It wasn’t even a fight!” he protests.

“You dumb-ass,” she says, baring her teeth, snapping at him a little, his hand caught carefully in her jaws. She could take his hand off at the wrist if she wanted, but he knows she won’t. Val shakes her head, and he feels that bright, small pinprick of pain where she’s holding onto him, pressing down on him, pressing _into_ him just a bit. It grounds him, soothes him, to know they’re connected, and even that bit of pain is good if it means he’s close to her.

“Val,” he says again, “Val, I missed you.”

She lets go of him, raises herself up on her hind legs to smother him on the hospital bed. She’s probably not supposed to do that—hospital beds weren’t meant to take the weight of a full-grown lioness, and things are probably going to begin beeping any second now—but he throws his arms around her anyway, burying his face in her fur.

“I missed you,” he mutters. “I missed you, I missed you.”

“You idiot,” she says again, sighing. “I missed you, too.” Then, pointedly, “This doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed as hell at you.”

“For the concussion?” he asks, puzzled. “Or our fight? Or—”

“All of the above, and then some,” Val interrupts. She shakes her head. “Kent. I’m not going to live like this for the next ten or fifteen years. It’s just not—we’re not—this isn’t healthy for us. It isn’t good.”

“What isn’t good?” he asks defensively, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He thinks she knows where she’s going with this, and it isn’t anywhere good.

“Don’t,” Val says, and he wishes the word was sharp-edged, was full of fight so he could push back and set it off into a fight, an explosion, avoid the oncoming train wreck by blowing everything to hell, because then at least it would be somewhat under his control. At least it would’ve been his _choice_. But Val sounds—she sounds so fucking tired, _Jesus_ , so exhausted and drained and down to her last dregs of energy.

“Don’t, Kenny,” she says, and he thinks this is the first time he’s ever heard her sound defeated. “You know. You know there’s—there’s something wrong with us. And maybe it’s the situation, yeah, I get that. It’s been fucked up for years, living our whole lives pretending to be something we’re not, but—Kenny, I think it’s us, too. I think we’re—we’re lost, aren’t we? I just—”

At this point, her voice breaks, and if this were him, he thinks he would’ve just stopped right there, let it go unsaid, but Val’s always, _always_ been the best part of him, the bravest bits, the piece of him that’s never once backed down from a challenge or looked away from the hard truths:

She keeps going.

She says, “Kenny, I know we fuck up a lot, you and me. But we—the things we said to Izzy and Jack. That wasn’t—it wasn’t okay of us. It was—God, we used every little bit we knew about them to make it hurt as hard as possible, and I never thought—” She closes her eyes, whiskers quivering, her muscles trembling, all that finely honed, carefully controlled power shaking apart. “I don’t think we would’ve done that if we were okay. If we—if we had the space, and the time, and—Kent, if I was good, I wouldn’t have said those things to them,” she says with desperate conviction.

“You _are_ good,” Kent protests. Is that what she thinks? God, he’s really messed this up. “Baby, you’re so good, don’t you ever think—it was _me_ that fucked up, okay? It was me, babe, it wasn’t you, it wasn’t ever you, don’t you ever say otherwise.”

She nuzzles her face against his. “Kenny, that’s not what I meant,” she says, miserable. “I meant, if I were _doing_ good.”

“You _are_ doing good,” Kent argues.

“I’m _not_. I’m—God, Kent, how long has it been since I could go one fucking month without feeling like I’m suffocating? It was always better if I could see Izzy, because being near her made it so I could fucking breathe for two seconds, but I—that’s not good, is it? It’s not _right_ to be that way. I don’t want to have to need her that way—it’s like we’re using them, isn’t it? Like they’re—like they’re fucking inhalers or something, and that’s sure as hell not how it’s supposed to be. That’ s not how I want to think about the love of my life, and it’s not the way I want you to think about yours.” Val takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. She repeats the process a few times, so the only sound in the room is the background beeping of the hospital machines Kent’s hooked up to, and the way Val’s every breath rasps in and out of her chest.

“I think we’re hurt, Kenny. I think we’re hurt bad,” she says eventually. “I think—I think we need some help.” 

And what the hell can Kent say to that? What could he possibly argue that could obscure that one blinding fact, laid open bare and raw like Val took down their every shared self-delusion and ripped it open to expose the bleeding truth?

Now it’s Kent’s turn to close his eyes and breathe, rough and rasping like every gasp of air pains him.

“Kenny?” Val says, nudging his cheek in worry, her voice so small and scared, not a thing like she usually sounds.

“Okay,” he says, the word nearly a sob. “Okay. I’ll get some help. I’ll talk to somebody.”

Val pauses, looks at him. “Yeah?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Okay,” she says. And, “ _We’ll_ get some help, okay? We’ll—we’ll get through this together, Kenny, I promise.” She presses her forehead close to his, and Kent presses back, knowing that even if the world ended, and everything went to shit, and he had absolutely nothing and no one else, at least he’d still have her. Thank _God_ , he’d still have her.

And, okay. Okay. He’s Kent motherfucking Parson, and he’s got the best goddamn fucking daemon anyone could ask for.

That’s more than enough to start.

 

___ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	8. he sent his soul to wander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty _does_ hesitate, but eventually he nods and lets it go. It’s none of his business, and, besides, it’s in the past. There’s a game of shinny to play, a semester to look forward to, and a boy he’s in love with standing right there, waiting for him to follow.
> 
> What else could he ask for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Mild description of a panic attack.

* * *

 

_**CH. 8: he sent his soul to wander** _

 

* * *

 

 

One moderately quiet afternoon at the Pond, Jack tells him that he and Kent Parson owe each other a lot of apologies. Isolde sits patiently at his feet, Elle fidgets by Isolde, and Bitty—

Well, he _does_ hesitate, but eventually he nods and lets it go. It’s none of his business, and, besides, it’s in the past. There’s a game of shinny to play, a semester to look forward to, and a boy he’s in love with standing right there, waiting for him to follow.

What else could he ask for?

 

___

 

(In hindsight, maybe he _should_ have asked a few more questions. If not then, then later.

It would’ve saved all of them a world of confusion, that’s for sure.)  

 

___

 

Spring semester goes by fast. Bitty and Elle spend it playing hockey, baking, procrastinating on their schoolwork, procrastinating on their schoolwork _by_ baking—you get the picture.

Jack and Isolde, as expected, spend it working harder than God. In addition to his senior thesis, Jack’s also got spreadsheets upon spreadsheets, checklists upon checklists, a whole binder’s worth of data weighing the pros and cons of different NHL teams.

Bitty does his best not to worry—Jack and Isolde have his dad, his agent, and a whole slew of people ready and able to help them. He and Elle can best help them both by working on their own hockey.

Then one day while they’re out and about, they get run over by a jaunty-voiced woman and her Siberian Husky of a daemon.

“Kiddo, I’m sorry!” she says, helping him up, and there’s Jack, making a suspiciously perfectly timed joke right after.

That’s how Bitty meets Georgia Martin, assistant manager for the Providence Falcons, and her daemon Cazares.

 

___

 

Elle is _convinced_ the Falcs would be the best fit for Isolde and Jack. 

“Come on, they’re practically the best-known team in the league for having unusual daemons! Isolde will fit right in—heck, on the Falcs, she’d basically be _normal_ _,”_ Elle argues, and rather compellingly at that, if Bitty’s being honest. Most of the expansion teams in the league tend to buck the trend of having apex predators only, but the Falcs go a step beyond most. On their roster is a swan, a meerkat, an alligator, and, best of all, Alexei Mashkov’s famed fruit bat, Ustinya.

(“Is prettiest daemon in the whole league!” Mashkov boasts in one of the many, many promo videos Ransom makes them watch.

“She _is_ _,”_ sighs Ogo longingly, eyes rapt on the screen where Mashkov is letting Ustinya hang upside from his forearm, her mouth open in an endearing yawn.

“Whipped,” Addy says affectionately, and Ogo doesn’t deny it.)

The Falcs would barely bat an eye at a badger like Isolde, not even one who could separate from her human for miles and miles.

Bitty and Elle trace the route from Samwell to Providence, and let themselves hope.

 

___

 

Before Bitty knows it, graduation day is here. It’s every bit as emotional as he imagined it would be, though no amount of imagining could have prepared him for it. It’s just—just—Jack is—Jack is _so_ —

Bitty doesn’t have the words, only knows that everything in him is aching just looking at him, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He has a thousand words climbing up his throat, clamoring to be said, but at the end of the day, only three really matter.

Bitty doesn’t say them. Says something else instead, something stupid and bland and _pointless_ , but neither he nor Elle are brave enough to say anything, so there you go:

They turn and walk away, tears in their eyes, tails tucked between their legs, and that’s that.

 

___

 

Except, miracle of miracles, it’s not.

He’s in the middle of helping Chowder unpack, trying to drown out his sorrows with Beyoncé, as he and Elle sing a rather depressing duet version of Halo, when there’s a hand suddenly on his shoulder.

“Bittle,” Jack says, panting hard, and he’s got Isolde tucked under his arm, like he carried her all the way here.

“Oh, my goodness,” Bitty babbles. “Look at the two of you! Why are you—is everything _alright?_ You’re outta breath! You could have texted—”

“Bitty,” Isolde says, and Bitty shuts his mouth, staring. If Isolde thought it was important enough to speak, then it was _important._

“Yes, honey?” Elle asks equally rapt, and the two of them watch as Jack sets Isolde down so she can bound over to Elle.

“Elle—” she says, tackling her, and Bitty feels the contact shiver clear through her, through _them_. Isolde _never_ touches Elle, hasn’t touched her since the night of the Epikegster when she barreled right into her, trying to get to Kent Parson’s daemon. She’s never touched Elle just to touch _her_.

She’s touching her now, though, and Bitty doesn’t know what to make of it.

And then—and then—

—then it hardly matters what Isolde is doing, because Jack kisses him. 

 

___

 

So, yes. That happened.

Suffice to say, nothing was the same after that.

 

___

 

“You know,” Elle says after, dazed, “I feel like we should complain to someone. Don’t you think we should complain to someone? We should—we should protest such a monumental change in our lives happening while we’re surrounded by Chowder and Xú Feng’s collection of Sharks gear. Don’t you—don’t you think so?”

“Mmhm,” Bitty says, equally dazed and not listening to a word she’s saying.

Then simultaneously they say, “I can’t believe that just happened,” and burst into joyous, body-shaking laughter.)

 

___

 

Two years fly by:

Junior year is a rollercoaster ride of emotions—there’s dealing with being an upperclassmen, helping Ransom and Holster as they captain the team, and hiding his relationship with Jack, _not_ hiding his relationship with Jack, getting the C, devolving into a blubbering mess as he says goodbye to Ransom and Holster and Lardo, supporting Jack through playoffs, then through a brutal 7-game series for the Stanley Cup, and then watching him and the Falcs _win_ the Stanley Cup.

“Oh, my _God,”_ Elle shrieks, and then she’s up over the boards, running right up to Isolde. “You did it!” she shrieks. “You did it!”

Isolde looks stunned. “We—we did,” she says, paws sliding on the ice as it finally hits her. She starts to laugh, bubbly and bright, her snout wrinkling from the force of her smile. “Jack!” she shouts. “We did it! We did it!”

“We did, sweetheart,” Jack says, smiling just as wide, and Bitty—

Bitty wishes he could kiss him.

Their eyes meet, then and there, and Bitty knows—in another life they could’ve done it, could’ve just thrown it all to the wind and done what the hell they wanted, and damn the consequences because they had each other, and that was more than enough.

In this life, though, Bitty steps back and watches as Jack picks up his laughing, sobbing daemon and balances her across his shoulders, and then hoists that Cup high.

 _This is enough_ , he thinks to himself, his and Elle’s joy ricocheting against each other, both their hearts full to bursting with adoration and pride, and they let the loves of the lives have this moment for themselves.

 

___

 

Senior year is more of the same, but with considerably more stress on Bitty’s part as he makes the last, chaotic rush to his own graduation, juggling schoolwork and hockey, captainship and job-searching in Providence, Skype sessions with his boyfriend and dodging his mother’s increasingly pointed questions.

It’s a lot, and more than once Chowder and Xú Feng find them lying face-down on the Haus kitchen linoleum.

“You okay there, Cap?” Xú Feng asks, nudging Elle with a tiny paw.

“Just leave me here to die,” Elle says dramatically.

“Ah. Essay, then,” Xú Feng says, exchanging a knowing glance with Chowder. Bitty sort of misses the days she was too shy to talk to them, since she can be surprisingly _merciless_ when it comes to poking fun at them for things beyond their control.

“Come on, Cap, you know putting it off will only make it worse,” Chowder imparts sagely. 

Bitty and Elle just lie there and groan.

 

___

 

But, yes—between corralling the current SMH, keeping up with the _old_ SMH, and dating a very handsome but very busy NHL player, Bitty’s schedule is completely booked.

Is it any wonder that he barely spares a second thought for Kent Parson, except to wish him good riddance?

 

___

 

The turning point is this:

Bitty is twenty-two years old, a few months post-graduation and working social media for a local non-profit in Providence. He’s living with his boyfriend, baking on the weekends, and working on his and Elle’s selfie game. Life is good. Life is great. Life is fantastic, actually, and that’s primarily because he’s finally, _finally_ managed to get Isolde to trust him enough to let him touch her.

“Is this okay?” he asks her anxiously, petting her cautiously. “Is she okay? Is this good? Do you want me to be more gentle, or more firm, or to go faster, or to stop, or—?”

“’S good,” Isolde murmurs drowsily. “Feels nice.” She butts her head up against his hand, and settles her body more solidly where it’s resting in his lap.

“Oh, good,” Bitty says, his heart squeezing in his chest. Elle’s curled protectively around her, and Jack’s lying down beside them, facing them, in easy touching distance, Elle’s tail brushing against his elbow.

Elle’s been letting Jack touch her since he and Bitty first started dating, heedless of the taboos and the warnings and the advice to wait, to let it be a sure thing, to remember that only hussies let someone touch their daemon within the first six months of dating.

“Well, that’s just pure horse crap,” Elle said, rolling her eyes, and she’d arched her back more firmly against Jack’s hand. “Mm, yes, there—a little to the left, honey—”

Bitty had closed his eyes and willed himself not to blush when he felt Jack’s hand brush up and down Elle’s spine. It hadn’t much worked, but who could blame him?

The look of sheer wonder in Jack’s eyes as he’d touched Elle—as he’d touched _Bitty_ —convinced him that it didn’t matter what anybody said: this was right. This was exactly where they were meant to be.

Isolde, though—well. She _was_ a bit more cautious, more reserved. She’s affectionate enough with Elle, spent this whole last year curled up beside her, but any time _Bitty_ came close to touching her, she’d shy away. Bitty knew that it bothered Jack, knew that he wanted to extend to Bitty the same amount of trust that Elle showed him, but that wasn’t something he could give.

It was Isolde’s choice, and Bitty would rather cut off his own hand than force her to accept him.

“It’s fine, sweetheart,” he told Jack, catching his wince and saying more firmly, “I don’t mind waiting. And if she’s never comfortable with it at all, I’m fine with that, too.”

Jack grimaced. “But she should—”

“There’s no should about it,” Bitty said, steadfast in his answer.

Jack swallowed. “But _I_ —” he began, frustration obvious in his voice. He stopped, blew out a breath. “You’re my boyfriend. I care about you, and—she’s my soul. She’s the heart of me. Shouldn’t she feel the same way about you?”

Bitty and Elle had glanced at each other. “Pretty sure it doesn’t work that way every time, honey,” Elle said dryly. “Otherwise Bitty and I would never argue, ever. Yet, lo and behold—”

“—we do,” Bitty finished.

Jack cracked a small smile. “Yeah, I get that. It’s just—usually Isolde and I are on the same page when it comes to—well. You know.”

Bitty raises a brow, feeling like teasing him a bit. “Oh, really? What is it that I know?”

Jack blushes, just like Bitty wanted him to. “Bits—” he says, just the hint of a pleading whine in his voice, and Bitty lets himself grin as wide as he likes, with more than a hint of teeth, as sharp as the matching smile on Elle’s own face.

Isolde comes back into the room at that point, takes one look at Bitty and Elle, takes another at Jack, and then launches herself at Elle, tumbling them both to the floor. At the same time, Jack reaches for Bitty and then they’re lost in a frenzy of heat and want.

That was then, though, and this is now—Bitty’s sure passion will come later, but for right now, he wants everything as sweet and as slow and as safe as possible for Isolde, wants her to know that there’s no rush, that he’ll treat her like she’s as precious to him as his own heart and soul. That he’ll touch her the way he touches Elle, beloved and dear and the best gift he’s ever gotten.

Isolde closes her eyes and falls asleep in Bitty’s lap, Jack beside them doing the same, and Bitty almost wants to cry, seeing how much they trust them.

“Holy cannoli,” Elle whispers. “They’re asleep.” She sounds as giddy as he feels, and she edges closer to Isolde’s sleeping face.

“Shh!” Bitty warns her, pushing against her forehead. “You’re gonna wake her up!”

“I won’t,” she says, affronted, sending him a cross look before turning back to Isolde adoringly. “She’s so pretty when she sleeps, don’t you think?”

“Of course she is, hon,” Bitty agrees. “Prettiest daemon in the whole wide world.” He pauses, considering, then adds, “Well, apart from you, of course.”

“Of course,” Elle says, giggling, curling up next to Jack, her eyes bright as she looks up at Bitty, the two of them marveling at their sheer luck.  

Bitty continues stroking Isolde gently, running his hand from her head to her tail in soft, soothing motions. She moves closer to him, sighing in her sleep, and he could spend the rest of his life sitting right here, touching Jack’s soul, he thinks.

They lose most of an hour that way, right up until it feels like his legs are going to fall asleep, and he shifts beneath Isolde, trying to find a more comfortable position without waking her up.

He doesn’t quite succeed, however, and Isolde stirs just the slightest bit.

Elle gives him a warning glance, butting her nose against his elbow, and Bitty makes a face at her. “You’ll wake her up!” she hisses, discontent.

“I won’t,” Bitty mutters, their roles reversed, but then Isolde makes a sleepy murmur, and the two of them freeze, staring right at her.

“Mmm,” Isolde murmurs, then rolls over, belly up, still fast asleep. Bitty and Elle stare for a tense, watchful minute after, holding their breaths until it’s clear that she’s not going to wake up.

Bitty lets out a huffing exhale, relaxing. “See?” he says smugly.

Elle rolls her eyes at him, opening her mouth to reply, when Isolde moves again, causing her to snap her jaws shut with a click, both she and Bitty going right back on alert.

Isolde tilts her head back, as if seeking something nearby. She mumbles something, the word slurring some because of how deeply she’s asleep, but they can hear it clear as day.

They suck in a shocked breath, the sound echoed the moment after by Isolde’s soft sigh. She doesn’t say anything more, but the damage is done—Elle and Bitty both know the name she spoke, the syllable of it touched with a searching, aching longing.

It’s the name of Kent Parson’s daemon.

“Val,” Isolde sighs, and this—

This is the moment that changes everything.

 

___

 

They don’t say anything about it—what _could_ they say? ‘Hey, in your sleep, your muttered the name of your ex, haha, what a coincidence’?

It’s fine. _They’re_ fine. Isolde can’t help what she says when she’s unconscious. Bitty took Intro to Daemon Psychology his freshman year, and he knows you can’t help what your subconscious comes up with.

“It’s probably just muscle memory,” he says to Elle one day, wanting to bite his tongue right afterwards. This is during one of the conversations where they are definitely _not_ obsessing over it, just—recapping it. Lightly discussing it, as it were.

Elle wrinkles her snout, displeased, and Bitty gets why that explanation doesn’t settle well with her, either—muscle memory would mean there _was_ a memory to remember. And it’s not as if they don’t know that Jack and Kent Parson had a thing back in their junior days. They’ve suspected it since the day the man showed up on the Haus’s doorstep, that fateful Epikegster. Still, it’s one thing to know about it clinically because your boyfriend shared it when he was going over his romantic history, and another thing entirely to know because his daemon _said his ex’s daemon’s name in her sleep_.

 

___

 

“Maybe she was just dreaming,” Elle suggests on a different day. “Having—a nightmare or something.”

Bitty just hits her with a deadpan look. “Did it sound like a nightmare to you?” he asks her.

Elle deflates.

 

___

 

“Does it even matter if it was a one-time thing?” Bitty mutters when Jack and Isolde are out on a roadie.

“Well, we’re still talking about it, aren’t we?” Elle grumbles back. “I’m pretty sure that means it matters.”

Bitty can’t really argue with that.

 

___

 

“Maybe we heard wrong,” Elle hazards, then immediately sighs. “No, no, I know we didn’t.”

Bitty just bites his lip and pats her consolingly on the head.

 

___

 

Isolde starts saying Elle’s name in her sleep, too.

Saying that statement alone would be a victory if it weren’t for the very last word—she says Elle’s name, but she doesn’t stop saying Val’s. And maybe she doesn’t say Elle’s name with any _less_ fondness, but it makes it harder to claim that it doesn’t mean anything when she imbues it with the same emotion she gives to Val’s, just with less longing and grief.

(Isolde always says Val’s name like she’s saying goodbye, and it breaks their hearts to hear it.)

 

___

 

Bitty and Elle try not to think about it, honestly, and they don’t blame Isolde at all, of course! That’s not what this is about. It’s just—well. It _does_ mean something, doesn’t it? And if it means something, then they’re going to have to do something about it, however reluctant they are to face it head-on.

After mulling it over, Bitty and Elle decide to bring it up with only Isolde for now. It doesn’t seem right to confront her over it when Jack’s in the same room—it seems too accusatory, too aggressive, and that’s not what they want to come off being at all. Isolde can’t help what happens in her sleep—they’re sure she doesn’t mean to even do it in the first place!

They just…have to address how to deal with it, without making it a big deal.

(She only says Val’s name when Bitty’s holding her, and Bitty’s not an idiot—he knows what that means:

There’s somebody else she trusted to touch her besides Jack, and his name is Kent Parson. It’s _already_ a big deal.)

“Sweetheart,” Bitty says when he’s chopping carrots in the kitchen, Isolde lounging by his side. Jack is in the shower, washing up after a work-out session, but Isolde wanted to stay by them, so here she is.

“Hmm?” she says, lifting her head from his foot. Her eyes are big and trusting, as gentle as they ever are, and he feels the urge to lie and say, ‘Never mind. It’s nothing.’

But it’s not nothing, and Isolde deserves better than having a coward for her human’s lover. Bitty takes a deep breath, and says, “You’ve been sleep-talking.”

“Ah,” Isolde says, radiating embarrassment. “Have I been saying weird things?”

Bitty pauses, unsure of how to proceed.

“Not weird,” Elle says, coming over and resting her head over the back of Isolde’s neck. “Just—you say my name sometimes.”

Isolde giggles, and nuzzles closer to her. “That’s because I care about you,” she says matter-of-factly, and neither Bitty nor Elle can quite hide their wince at that.

Isolde notices, of course. “What?” she says, worried.

“Um. Well. Elle’s name isn’t the only name you say,” Bitty says.

“Oh,” Isolde says, looking up at him, confused. “Do I say your name, too? Is that weird for you?”

Bitty bites his lip. “No.”

“Oh, good,” Isolde says, relieved, and Bitty immediately sees that she misunderstood.

“No—that’s not what I meant, I meant—well, you see—what I’m trying to say is—look, sometimes you say Val’s name in your sleep,” Bitty blurts out.

Isolde stares at him, deathly quiet. “No,” she says.

Bitty frowns. “Sweetheart, I’m not angry at you or anything, but we just wanted you to know—”

“No,” she says, louder, and she gets up. Bitty belatedly notices how quick her breathing’s gotten, and drops to his knees, holding his hand out to comfort her.

Isolde backs away, shaking her head. “No,” she says for the third time, claws scrambling to get away from him, bumping into Elle in her haste to flee.

“Isolde,” Elle says, alarmed, and Isolde freezes.

“I’m fine,” she says instantly, her eyes distant. “I’m fine. Jack, I just got startled, I’m fine.” She blinks, refocusing, pulling away from her connection to Jack and coming back to them. “Don’t tell him,” she pleads. “I’m so sorry, please don’t tell him, I didn’t mean to—” Her voice sounds on the verge of tears, and Bitty feels terrible for ever bringing this up.   

“Honey, no,” he says, reaching for her before he forcibly puts his hands down. It wouldn’t do to upset Isolde further, and as it is she’s wary enough with physical contact from him under normal circumstances, let alone circumstances like _these_. Thankfully, Isolde accepts Elle’s comfort, and his fox takes the opportunity and wraps herself around her like a soothing blanket.

“We’re not going to say anything,” Elle promises. “We just—well. We just wanted you to know what was happening, and to let you know that if there’s anything you wanted to talk about, you could always talk to us.”

Isolde makes a soft keening sound. “I can’t,” she says, miserable. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not a crime,” Bitty interrupts. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She looks at him, her eyes huge and frightened. “But it’s a mistake,” she whispers. “I’m not—I _shouldn’t_ miss her. Kent was so _bad_ for Jack, and Jack was just as bad for Kent, so that means that I was bad for Val, and I—”

“You weren’t,” Elle says. “You couldn’t be bad for anybody, Isolde.”

Isolde just shakes her head. “I _was_ ,” she insists. “You don’t know what it was like for her. I couldn’t do any of the things I promised her, and—she waited _so long_ for me. She waited _years_. It wasn’t fair. And—I know we weren’t good for each other in the long run—Jack and Kent were so—it was so terrible by the end of it. You were there. You saw. We just keep on hurting each other, and I’m _tired_ of hurting her. I won’t do it anymore. Please. I promise it’s in the past, I promise I’ll do better with you, please don’t leave us,” she begs, anguished.

“Isolde, honey, no,” Bitty says, almost crying himself.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Elle promises.

“Please,” Isolde repeats, not hearing them, “please, I’m sorry.”

At this point, Jack runs in, a towel thrown haphazardly around his waist, dripping water all over the hardwood floor. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Isolde—what’s the matter, girl, huh?” He drops right onto his knees, pulling Isolde from Elle’s clutches and cradling her to his chest.

“N-Nothing,” Isolde says, and Jack shakes his head, impatient and worried.

“Tell me,” he demands, focused entirely on her.

“I—I got scared,” she says. “There was—I was thinking—you know how I get, Jack, everything was just fine, it was good, it was _great_ , and so I thought, ‘I want this to last forever.’” Isolde shudders, continuing in a low whisper, “—and then I—then I thought, ‘What if it doesn’t?’ And then—and then—”

“Then you started having a panic attack,” Jack finishes, sighing in understanding.

“I’m sorry,” Isolde says, sounding utterly wretched. “Bitty and Elle were just trying to help me.” At that, she looks right at them, her eyes pleading.

Bitty—Bitty stares in shock.

Isolde is the sweetest daemon he knows, gentle and shy and painfully awkward in a way that Jack rarely shows, not unless you get to know him. She’s gotten her reputation for being a fierce fighter and a heavy hitter primarily for her unwillingness to never give up, and a strict policy for never talking to people she doesn’t know. Bitty and Elle have always thought her caution justified—anybody who spoke with her for ten minutes would instantly see that she was hardly the stone-cold daemon her reputation suggested. Her personality would give the jig up in two seconds flat; she didn’t have a deceptive bone in her body. Bitty and Elle once watched her fumble through a lie about _the weather_ , for Pete’s sake.

They’d never in a million years imagined that she could pull off the kind of deception required to fool _anybody_ , never believed her capable of coming up with a convincing story in mere _seconds_ , never once thought she could lie with such flawless conviction that no one would question it—

—not even Jack.   

And yet that’s just what she did.

“Thank you,” Jack is telling Elle. “I’m sorry we had to put you through that.”

“It’s fine, Jack,” Elle says. Bitty hopes he doesn’t notice how her voice is wobbling. “We—we were happy to help. You know we’d—we’d do anything for you two. You know that.”

Bitty can’t say anything, only watches in silence as Isolde closes her eyes, the relief on her face echoing Jack’s. He can’t help but think how the expression on both their faces is exactly the same, but is appearing for completely different reasons.

Bitty wonders—

—what other things are completely different for Isolde than they are for Jack?

 

___

 

“She lied to him,” Elle says later, when Jack and Isolde are fast asleep. “She—she _lied_ to him.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Bitty says. “I saw.”

 _Bitty_ , she whispers in the privacy of their mind, _what on God’s green earth are we going to do?_

Bitty wishes he had an answer for her.

 

___

 

They conduct a conversation in bits and pieces, stretched out over a month and a half:

“It’s okay to miss Val, you know,” Bitty says one day at the grocery store when Jack is in the next aisle over. He’s looking at cereal. Bitty and the daemons are by the sugar. It seems a good a place as any to bring it up.

Isolde looks up at him, a slight frown between her brows. “She doesn’t like strangers calling her that,” she tells him.

“Valkyria, then,” Bitty says after a beat. “It’s okay to miss her.”

“Mm,” Isolde says. She doesn’t say anything more.

 

___

 

“I told her that I’m not hurt or insulted about the sleep-talking thing,” Elle says.

Bitty raises a brow. “And?”

“She said she’s looking into how to stop it.”

They both sigh.  

 

___

 

“We wouldn’t mind if you wanted to be friends with her again,” Bitty reassures her while Jack is doing the dishes. “Honest.”

Isolde doesn’t answer him, just looks at Elle.

Elle looks up at him. _She says she doesn’t think it’s a good idea._

Wonderful. Now she wouldn’t even talk to him directly.

 _She says not to worry about that_ , Elle says immediately. _She just doesn’t want Jack to worry. It’s not good for him._

 _Well, this can’t be good for_ her, Bitty says back, exasperated.

Elle hesitates. _I don’t…I don’t think she cares particularly much about that_.

Bitty’s heart twists in his chest. _Oh_ , he thinks.

 _Yeah_ , Elle says glumly.

 

___

 

 _But_ why _wouldn’t it be a good idea?_ Bitty asks, exasperated. _I’m sure she misses you, too_.

Bitty doesn’t need Elle to tell him that Isolde replied, _She doesn’t_. The words were written all over her face.

 _Well, in that case, maybe you could apologize first_ , Bitty suggests.

 _Can’t_ , Elle translates.

_Because?_

_Jack._

Of course.

“History Channel or Cupcake Wars?” the person in question asks, remote in hand.

“The Great British Bake-Off,” Elle answers for him while he resists the urge to tear out his own hair.

___

 

 _Look, you know I love Jack, but maybe you should consider what_ you _want, sweetheart_ , Bitty tells Elle to tell Isolde.

 _She wants Jack to be happy_ , Elle relays. _And alive._

“Everything else is immaterial,” Isolde affirms.

Jack tilts his head around the corner. “What’s immaterial?” he asks.

“Anything that isn’t hot chocolate,” Isolde says solemnly.

Jack laughs, and goes back to what he was doing. Bitty frowns, and goes back to worrying.

 

___

 

“Elle and Isolde are talking more, eh?” Jack says, nudging his shoulder companionably. He tilts his chin at where their daemons are curled up together. “Half the time I try to talk to her when you’re around, she’s already talking to Elle.”

“Mmhm,” Bitty says, distracted. He’s busy talking to Isolde—he and Elle think they’re on the verge of a break-through, here.

 _So she admits she misses her_ — Elle says.

_Fantastic!_

_—but she doesn’t think they can be friends_.

_Tell her that Valkyria would want her to reach out! We know she would!_

Elle snorts. _And we know this_ how?

Bitty resists the urge to roll his eyes, carefully keeping them on the t.v. screen instead so Jack doesn’t suspect what’s going on. He’s trying his best to keep his promise to Isolde, and he won’t bring Jack in until she says it’s alright. He tells Elle, _Please. You saw her at Epikegster. There’s no way she wouldn’t leap at the chance to reconnect with her_.

 _True enough_ , Elle says grudgingly. Then, _Oh._

_What?_

Elle doesn’t say anything, just goes stiff all over, hurt washing over Bitty through their bond.

“Elle?” he says out loud, worried.

“Nothing,” Elle says. She settles back down, but she’s turned away from Isolde now.

“Sorry,” Isolde says, sounding miserable.

“What? Why?” Jack asks, frowning.

“It’s fine,” Elle says, brushing them both off.

“Elle, hon—”

“It’s fine,” she says, and that’s that.

 

___

 

“What did she say to you?” Bitty demands when Jack and Isolde are gone on a five-day roadie.

Elle hesitates for a long, long moment, then admits, “She doesn’t want to be friends with Valkyria.”

Bitty frowns. “I know that’s what she _says_ , but clearly she—”

“ _No_ ,” Elle says, baring her teeth. “She doesn’t want to be _friends_ with her, Bitty.”

Bitty goes still, ice flooding his veins. “Oh,” he says, the word small and shocked.

Elle laughs mirthlessly. “Yeah. Oh.”

 

___

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you,” Isolde says.

 

___

 

“I’m never going to do anything about it. I promise,” Isolde says.

 

___

 

“It’s in the past. It doesn’t matter anymore, you know,” Isolde says.

 

___

 

“Jack loves you so much,” Isolde says.

 

___

 

“ _I_ love you so much,” Isolde whispers to Elle.

“But you love her, too,” Elle says.

Isolde doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

 

___

 

Jack’s gone for a game again. It’s just him and Elle, alone in this big, empty bed, neither of them able to sleep.

Bitty rolls over, and looks at the closet, where he keeps his suitcases. He wonders if he should start packing.

 

___

 

“I’m sick of this,” Elle says one day, apropos of nothing.

Bitty pauses, hands covered in flour. “Sick of what?” Bitty asks.

“Of being _pathetic_ ,” Elle snarls. She paces back and forth, agitated and restless. “This is goddamn stupid! So what if she loves her! She loves me, too!”

“We _know_ that,” Bitty says, “but—”

“But nothing! She loves me, and that’s—damn it, that’s more than fucking enough. It’s more than I ever dreamed of, Bitty, and I’m not throwing it away because I’m stupid and jealous! This—this is ridiculous! They’re not going to leave us!”

“Elle, Isolde is in love with Kent Parson’s daemon,” Bitty says through gritted teeth.

“And that’s fine!”

“It’s _not_.”

“It _is_ ,” Elle insists, just as vehement. “She can—she can be in love with her, too! It doesn’t mean she loves me less. It doesn’t mean Jack loves _you_ less—”

“Elle—”

“It doesn’t!” Elle insists. “And I—look, I’m tired of making her feel bad for things she can’t help. I’m tired of making _myself_ feel bad for things I can’t help. What are we scared of, Bitty? What exactly has got us so spooked that we’re two seconds away from running for the hills with our tails between our legs, huh? That we can’t compete with Kent Parson and his daemon? That Jack and Isolde will leave us for them?”

“Yes!” Bitty shouts.

“Well, they won’t!” Elle says stubbornly, baring her fangs. “Isolde promised me she wouldn’t, so there! Problem solved.”

“Problem sol—do you even hear what you’re saying?” Bitty demands, waving a hand around.

Elle rolls her eyes. “Yes. I’m stating the obvious here. We’re not going anywhere unless _we_ decide to go. Isolde and Jack are never gonna ask us to leave, and I’m not going to be the bitch that doubts them.”

“Well—”

“Do you trust them?” Elle interrupts.

Bitty stares at her.

“Do you trust them?” she repeats.

“Of course I do,” he says, helpless.

“Then trust me, too,” she says, coming up to him and nudging his hand. Bitty moves away, squeezes his eyes shut, his chest aching, but she follows him, doesn’t let up until he’s petting her head. “Bitty—doesn’t it twist you up inside every time Isolde denies herself something? Every time she says she doesn’t need anything, that what she wants doesn’t matter?”

“Of course it does,” Bitty snaps, swiping at his teary eyes.

“Good,” Elle says resolutely, “because it hurts me, too. Bitty, I don’t want her to be miserable anymore—I don’t want to make her choose one kind of happiness over another. I want her to get everything she wants, and I’m fine with not being the only one who’s able to give that to her. I knew from the start that I’d have to share her.”

“You did?” Bitty asks dryly. “You saw this whole mess coming and didn’t think to warn me?”

Elle snorts. “I’m not talking about Kent Parson, you idiot,” she says, rolling her eyes affectionately. “I’m talking about hockey.”

“Oh,” Bitty says, surprised. “But we knew that already, didn’t we?” 

“Like I just said, if you were paying any attention,” Elle says, sniffing disdainfully. She sighs. “Anyway, if I could share Isolde with hockey, I can share her with Valkyria.”

Bitty stops, staring at her. “Elle, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asks slowly.

Elle draws herself up, squaring her shoulders. “I’m saying that I think we should talk to Valkyria,” she says, resolute, “and ask her if she wants to be my girlfriend’s other girlfriend.”

“Oh, my God,” Bitty says, sitting right down on the floor in shock.

 

___ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	9. they are caught in a trap of their own making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do realize,” Bitty says, a whole hour and half a tub of ice cream later, “that this means we have to be friendly with Kent Parson?”
> 
> Elle grimaces, but nods. “I’m prepared to make nice, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Canon-typical alcohol usage, mild homophobia.

* * *

 

**_CH. 9: they are caught in a trap of their own making_ **

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You do realize,” Bitty says, a whole hour and half a tub of ice cream later, “that this means we have to be friendly with Kent Parson?”

Elle grimaces, but nods. “I’m prepared to make nice, yes.”

“Even after everything he said to Jack?” Bitty asks pointedly.

“Need I remind you, Jack himself said that they _both_ owed each other a lot of apologies. And from my many, many conversations with Isolde, I have a sneaking suspicion that Jack’s said _at least_ as bad to Kent. At _least_.”

Bitty makes a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat.

“Either way, it doesn’t matter—Jack’s not interested in Kent, anyway,” Elle says, offhanded.

“And _how_ do you know that?”

“Isolde said he’s not,” is Elle’s prompt reply.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Bitty protests.

Elle wrinkles her snout. “If Isolde says so, I’m pretty sure we can believe her.”

Bitty rolls his eyes. “Need I remind you that we watched her lie flawlessly to Jack’s face, not to mention spent the last _month_ having secret conversations with her, without him ever catching a clue? You’re _certain_ it doesn’t go both ways?”

Elle frowns, suddenly doubtful.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Bitty rubs a hand over his face, sighing. Lord, what a mess they’ve found themselves in. “I will admit I’m inclined to trust her on this, though,” he eventually relents. “Let’s only ask Valkyria if she wants a relationship with Isolde. Kent can just—stay friends with Jack, or something.”

Elle grimaces. “They’re not even friends right now,” she points out.

“So…we’ll just get them to be friends first,” Bitty says.

Elle sighs. “Go get another tub of ice cream,” she says wearily. “This is going to be a long night.”  

 

___

 

It _is_ a long night. _And_ a long week. _And_ a long month—but by the end of it, Jack is cautiously talking with Kent Parson again.

Convincing him hadn’t been easy, to say the least, but Bitty had mentioned how Valkyria had come up a couple of times when Elle and Isolde had been talking.

“I know she’s trying to put a brave face on it,” Bitty says quietly, “but it’s obvious she misses her, Jack. Even I can tell, and she’s not even my daemon.”

“But that’s—do you think—what if they’re better off?” Jack answers, folding his arms. “The only time we even see each other is at hockey games. If they wanted to be friends again, they’d have talked to us.”

Bitty notices how Jack says ‘them’ instead of ‘her,’ clearly referencing both Valkyria _and_ her human, but he decides not to address it yet. Baby steps first. “You think so?” he says, carefully neutral. “Maybe they just wanted to give you guys space.”

Jack shakes his head. “You don’t know Val,” he says, such conviction in his words, the exact same conviction that was in Isolde’s. “If she wanted to be friends with us, she’d be friends with us.”

“Maybe she doesn’t think _you_ want to be friends with her,” Bitty points out.

Jack frowns, his eyes darkening.

“Think about it, sweetheart,” Elle urges, coming up to nudge Jack’s hand.

“Okay,” Jack says, sighing, but he does as they ask.

Within weeks, Jack has Kent’s number again, and, despite a rocky beginning where Kent hung up on him, claiming to have ‘dropped his phone in his tub,’ Jack starts using it pretty often. Nothing too drastic, just keeping up on their day to day lives, mostly talking hockey, t.v. shows they’re watching, and sharing updates on each other’s families. Kent never lost touch with Jack’s parents, and Jack apparently used to be friendly with Kent’s younger sister, so this is an area that isn’t quite as fraught as both of their careers, though Jack assures Bitty that talking hockey with Kent isn’t that stressful for him.

“It’s Parse,” Jack states, as if those two words could explain everything, and maybe they can. “Even if we don’t have anything else in common, we always have hockey.”

It’s a start, at least, and Bitty and Elle will take it.

 

___

 

So that’s step one of their plan mostly taken care of—now they’re onto step two, and this one’s mostly on them:

Building their own personal rapport with Kent Parson and Valkyria.

“Do we have to?” Bitty says, frowning down at his phone.

“Everything we’ve read online said having a good working relationship with your metamour is an essential component of a polyamorous relationship,” Elle says primly, as if _she’s_ any more of an expert on this stuff than he is. “Now quit your whining and tweet him good luck on his game.”

Bitty wrinkles his nose, but sucks it up and does as she says. _This is for Isolde_ , he tells himself sternly, typing up the post and hitting enter. _You’re doing this for Isolde._

To his complete surprise, not ten minutes later, his post not only gets a like from Kent Parson’s account, but he gets _followed_. By _Kent Parson_.

“Oh, my God,” Bitty says, staring at his phone. “Does Kent Parson know who I am?”

“Who cares?” Elle says, circling anxiously at his feet. “Just follow him back!”

Bitty presses the button, and tries and fails not to feel like they’ve just set course for perilous destinations with no intention of turning back.

 

___

 

Bitty and Kent exchange passive-aggressive chirps on Twitter for a few weeks, and he’s slowly starting to get a better feel for the man, which Bitty feels is impressive work on his part, because Kent Parson’s honestly a bit of a cipher. His online persona is nothing but funny, irreverent hockey bro, somebody who’s up to date with pop culture, and runs a great selfie game, and is modestly confident about his own skills and the skill of his team, but there’s not much to go on besides that. Bitty gets a sense of the things he likes, but not the things he loves, and definitely not the things he hates. He knows the topics he’s interested in, but not any opinion more controversial than the fact that he doesn’t like mac and cheese if it doesn’t come out of a box. Which, alright, Elle finds plenty controversial by itself, but it doesn’t really add much to who Kent Parson is as a person, evolved from the boy Isolde still talks about with a wistful note in her voice.

What _does_ reveal more about Kent is, strangely enough, the Instagram he runs for his cats, and the twitter he runs on Valkyria’s behalf. The former is full of cute pictures of his Maine Coon, Purrs, and his American Shorthair, Kit—mostly shots of them by themselves with funny (and often pun-filled) captions. But members of his team and a few other people he knows make enough cameos that Bitty starts figuring out who matters most to him—there are frequent pictures of the cats napping in Jeff Troy’s shoes when he comes over after a game, Troy’s wife Maggie laughing at her husband as he tries unsuccessfully to shoo them away. Kit perching on top of various rookies’ heads. Miguel Gfroerer, one of the Aces’ d-men, sneaking Purrs catnip. Daniel Chopard’s bear daemon with a cat on both her huge front paws. Each of the Little Aces with at least one selfie with one of the cats, if not both.

Pretty soon, Bitty figures out that 1) Kent Parson’s cats are ridiculously spoiled, and 2) The people who have access to Kent’s cats have access to his life, his heart, and probably his bank account to boot.

The second source of Bitty’s knowledge is Valkyria herself. Famous in the league for years as one of the fiercest, hardest-playing daemons out there, Valkyria’s always had the spotlight on her. Beyond just her play-style, Valkyria’s exceptional in more ways than one:

  1. She’s a lion, an unusual form anywhere, but even more unusual in hockey, which tends to favor wolves, bears, and other winter-friendly animals.
  2. Thanks to Kent’s witch blood, she can separate far enough from her human that she can be anywhere on the sidelines, her unpredictability an asset in any game they play.
  3. Ever since a few years ago, Val started being that vanishingly rare daemon who talked in public to people she didn’t know and wasn’t close to. She talked to reporters, to other players, to random fans she and Kent met on the street. There was a whole twitter account devoted to just the chirps she said during games, and another for the outrageous comments she’d make during interviews.



Just from watching Valkyria through second-hand sources, Bitty can already tell that she’s warm, hilarious, and effortlessly charming, friendly and patient with most people she meets, caustically sarcastic to those who’ve earned her wrath, and ferociously protective of the people she loves. She possesses the kind of confidence and self-assurance that Bitty wishes he had more of, and he and Elle can’t help but like her. Elle’s already admired her for years, to be honest, it’s only that her feelings have undergone a resurgence now that they’re actively trying to recruit her as a metamour.

The point is, Bitty can see why Isolde’s still in love with Valkyria, even years later. She’s the kind of person who’d be difficult to get over, anybody can see that.

What Bitty can’t see at first is how she’s _Kent Parson’s_ daemon, of all people. Kent Parson is shallow, occasionally airheaded, and possesses a vicious mean streak when he doesn’t get what he wants. Granted, Bitty’s only seen that last trait in action just the once, but that once is enough to make an outsized impression.

But seeing how fond Valkyria is of Kent, the obvious pride she takes in her human, gets Bitty to start seeing him in a different light:

“He’s always dragging us out to the rink at ass o’clock in the morning,” Val complains, all false annoyance. “We’re always the first ones there and the last ones to leave—it’s a miracle we don’t have a bed there.” And Bitty knows that Kent’s a hard worker, somebody who gives his all to the things he loves.

“Ugh, he’s such a dork—did you know, he’s trying to convince me to cosplay as Artemis from Sailor Moon? We’re going with Carrie to Comic-Con this summer, and she’s going to be Sailor Venus, which is great, but I’m kinda worried about us—Kent _cannot_ pull off a convincing Tuxedo Mask, I swear. Wait, what do you mean you don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s— _you’ve never seen Sailor Moon before?”_ And Bitty knows that Kent is both a ridiculous anime nerd, and the kind of big brother who spoils his sister.

“You should see Kent anytime there’s a baby around—suddenly he’s just _gone_ , like, where did you go? Then I see a tiny human, and inevitably he’s right there, making faces at them, telling them how cute they are, fawning all over them and their daemon. I hope to God his spouse is prepared to be the strict one, because it’s sure as hell not going to be us.” And Bitty knows that Kent loves kids, that he wants a family of his own, that he’d probably be a good dad. Probably. A decent one, at least, judging from some of the videos with the Little Aces, which Bitty may or may not have watched more than once, not that he’s counting.

On his computer screen, Kent Parson does shadow puppets for a dark-haired five-year-old, laughing the snorting laugh that means he doesn’t knows he’s being filmed, grinning in a way that makes him look five years younger.

Bitty closes his laptop, heart aching for some strange reason.

“We ought to go bake a pie,” he says to Elle.

She circles once, twice, before nudging his ankle with her nose in agreement. “Yeah. What should we make?”

“I think we’ve got some pears, and—oh! There’s that batch of cherries we bought at the farmer’s market yesterday. We could make cherry,” he suggests.

“Sounds good,” Elle says.

Neither of them mention how cherry pie is Kent Parson’s favorite.  

(They don’t send Kent a pie that day, but they do send him one the next week. He’s having a tough few games; it’s the least they could do for one of Jack’s friends, that’s all.)

 

___

 

Then Bitty accompanies Jack to that year’s All-Star Game, and meets Kent Parson again face to face for the first time in three years.

It…changes some things.

 

___

 

They’re at the hotel where the players are staying, wandering over to the elevator banks with their luggage in tow, when a voice shouts out Bitty’s name.

By the time he turns around, Kent Parson is right in front of him, nothing but blond hair, lean muscles, and that trademark smile. Valkyria’s nowhere in sight, thankfully, which is good for Bitty’s heartrate—he doesn’t think he could take Elle’s additional nerves on top of his own.

“Hi!” Bitty says inanely, and wonders if he should try and shake Parson’s hand.

“Thought that was you,” Parson says, sounding pleased, and Bitty doesn’t know what to say with that. Thankfully, Parson doesn’t seem to expect a reply, just steps right into Bitty’s personal space so Bitty’s nose is suddenly filled with the citrus tang of his cologne.

“It’s great to see you,” Parson says casually, clapping a hand on Bitty’s shoulder and pulling him in for a quick, one-armed half-hug, like a million other bro-hugs Bitty’s shared. He steps away, keeping the hand on Bitty’s shoulder and squeezing lightly. “You doing good, man?”

“Uh,” Bitty says, unsettled. He clears his throat, thrown off-guard by the familiar way Parson greeted him. “Yes, we’re doing fine.”

“Awesome,” Parson says, already moving away. “You tell Jack I said hi, ’kay?”

 _Like hell we will. Who does he think we are, his personal messengers?_ Elle thinks at Bitty, mildly affronted, but Parson’s halfway across the room by then, and it would be pointless to try and let him know that they’re not just going to blindly do what he says.

When Parson reaches the doors, Valkyria appears seemingly out of nowhere to fall into step beside him, and they exit into the Florida sunshine together.

 _How_ does _she do that?_ Elle wonders. _I’d_ kill _to be able to teleport into existence like that._

 _Maybe it’s a witch daemon thing?_ Bitty suggests.

 _Maybe,_ Elle agrees, sounding distracted.

Bitty and Elle spend another moment watching Parson and Valkyria disappear into the crowd.

 

___

 

The thing is, Kent Parson and his Valkyria are annoyingly perfect in person. This is something Bitty and Elle have known for a while, ever since they started actively stalking them on Isolde’s behalf. But it’s one thing to watch them be suave and charming on a computer screen or in a magazine, and another thing entirely to have all that charisma directed right at them from barely two feet away.

“How the hell do you know all the best restaurants, huh?” Kent ‘Call Me Parse’ Parson says from across the dinner table that first night, grinning right at Bitty, his hand brushing his as he passes the breadsticks over. “I’ve been playing games in Tampa for ten years now and I’ve never even heard of this place.”

Jack chuckles, a deep, easy sound. “Bitty’s an unapologetic food connoisseur,” he boasts, shooting Bitty a fond glance that warms him from head to toe.

“Oh, hush you,” Bitty mutters, hiding his smile in his wine glass.

Parse watches them with attentive eyes, his expression clear. There’s not a hint of jealousy or desire on his face, which is—which is surprising, but good. It’s really good. It’s exactly what Bitty wants, actually.

Bitty bites his lip to keep from frowning, and, under the table, Elle nudges his ankle with her nose. _Why are you upset?_ she asks, bewildered. _Isn’t this dinner going great?_

 _It’s going peachy,_ Bitty answers, then gets distracted by Parson humming as he considers them.

“You guys are cute,” Valkyria suddenly pronounces, lifting her head so Bitty and Jack can see her. “Like, ‘your love defies the odds’ cute, considering Jack used to think chicken fingers were the height of cuisine, and _you’re_ apparently a foodie.”

Jack chokes slightly on his wine, and Bitty’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Excuse me?” he splutters. “I am _not_ a foodie, thank you very much. Those people are like the hipsters of the professional cooking world, and I _refuse_ to be lumped in with them—”

Parse throws his head back and laughs, and Bitty shuts his mouth, suddenly distracted by the line of his throat. “Oh, man,” Parse says, leaning his chin against his hand, still smiling, “did you know, I am _so_ glad I’ve been reading your tweets in the right voice, bro. That is _exactly_ how I pictured you sounding.”

Bitty pauses, unsure of what to make of that. “Well,” he says, “I’m glad to know I don’t disappoint.”

“Who, you?” Parse says, still teasing, his eyes strangely fond. “Oh, you could never.”

Bitty swallows, suddenly flushing slightly.

Valkyria eyes him, considering. “Be nice,” she drawls, nudging Parse’s hand with her snout.

“Wha—I _am!”_ Parse protests, putting on a convincing display of outrage.

Valkyria rolls her eyes. “Right. And I’m the queen of Timbuktu.” She turns her face towards Bitty, a wild thing perfectly leashed. “Don’t mind my ingrate of a human, by the way. He’d never admit it, but he owes you for the pies—”

“Why wouldn’t I admit I owe him for those?” Parse protests.

“—since they go straight to his ass, meaning that now he actually has one,” Val finishes dryly, causing Parse to splutter, and Isolde to laugh, and Jack to chuckle, and Bitty to turn as red as Elle’s fur.

 

___

 

“Was it just me, or was Kent Parson flirting with you at dinner?” Elle asks after.

“Elle!” Bitty says, scandalized, shooting a worried glance at Jack.

“What?” Elle demands. “I feel like it’s a reasonable question.”

Jack, surprisingly, chuckles in response. “No,” he states calmly. “Parse is just like that with everyone.”

“Really?” Elle asks. She perks up an ear, snout wrinkling in her skepticism. _“Everyone?”_

“Everyone,” Isolde affirms. “Parse likes people.”

“He might’ve been teasing you a bit more, though, since you’re friends,” Jack says, and Bitty chokes.

“We’re _friends?”_ he squawks, stopping in his tracks and causing Elle to bump into him. “Since when are we friends?”

Jack frowns slightly, confused. “Since you started sending him pie in the mail?”

“That’s because he’s _your_ friend!” Elle shouts.

Jack frowns harder. “Oh.” He furrows his brows. “No, that doesn’t make any sense. You talk to him regularly on twitter, don’t you? He mentions that a lot in our texts.”

“Yes? So?” Bitty waves a hand, still deeply disturbed.

“So that makes the two of you friends,” Jack declares smugly.

Bitty’s mouth drops open. “You can’t just declare us friends because we talk on twitter!” he says. Bitty’s very certain friendship doesn’t work that way, especially not Kent Parson’s friendship. The man was an NHL player, for God’s sake—he interacted with _thousands_ of people online! Daily!

“He talks about you to other people,” Isolde counters. “That’s friendship for Parse. Believe us, we’d know.”

And, well. Bitty supposes they would, so—they’re friends with Kent Parson. Huh.

 _I guess we’re further along than we thought,_ Elle thinks.

 _I guess we are,_ Bitty agrees.

 

___

 

Parse and Jack end up playing on the same team, and it makes something ache in Bitty’s heart to watch them, the two of them moving utterly in-sync, as if the years between then and now ceased to exist.

 _She’s having fun, huh?_ Elle tells him, obviously thinking along similar lines. She paws at the ground, wistful.

 _Yeah,_ Bitty answers, watching Valkyria head straight for Isolde for a celly, a sharp-toothed grin on both their faces, _she is._

 

___

 

That night, Parse and Val drop by their hotel room to say hi, and end up staying for an impromptu game of Egyptian Ratslap, of all things.

“Holy shit, we should switch to blackjack,” Parse announces, wincing as he shakes out his hand.

Jack snorts. “Like hell we should. As if I want to be cheated out of house and home.” He slides a glance over at Bitty, and explains, “Parse counts cards.”

Parse sticks his tongue out at him. “Card counting is _not_ cheating, it’s using math!”

Jack crosses his arms. “It’s cheating.”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“Oh, my God,” Valkyria says, flicking her tail at Parse’s face, “what are you, twelve?”

“Twenty-seven, actually,” Kent says archly, tilting his nose up in the air, and Elle ends up laughing so hard she cries when he accidentally inhales some of Valkyria’s fur as a result, and that, _that_ sets the rest of them off.

(Okay. Bitty concedes that they might—just _might_ —be friends.)

 

___

 

“You’re good for him, you know,” Parse says out of the blue. It’s the next morning, and he’s dropped by to retrieve his snapback while Jack is out jogging. Valkyria’s with him, resting back on her haunches as her human renders Bitty speechless.

Bitty stares at them, wide-eyed.

Parse smiles—a real smile, not a fake one, and Bitty wonders when exactly he started being able to tell the two apart. “I’m glad you found each other,” he says, as if he’s as glad for Bitty’s sake as he is for Jack’s, and Bitty _truly_ doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Thank you,” he says, careful, and Parse shrugs in reply.

“Just stating facts,” he says.

Bitty bites his lip. “Um. Well—let me thank you for being Jack’s friend again, then,” Bitty says, Elle a reassuring weight against his leg. “Elle and I—we really appreciate that. We know he and Isolde missed you two something awful.”

“Yeah?” Valkyria says, sounding wistful.

Elle nods. “Yeah.”

Parse and Valkyria laugh in unison, the sound of it bittersweet. “Never would have guessed,” Parse says, his mask cracking to reveal something achingly vulnerable underneath. Bitty catches his breath to see it, but within the next second it’s gone, and Parse’s charming grin is back in place.

 _Fake,_ Elle thinks, and Bitty’s not the only one who’s been keeping track of his smiles, it seems.

“Well, then,” Parse says. “Tell Jack and Isolde goodbye for us, will you?”

“We will,” Bitty promises, such a reversal from only two days back.

Parse nods. “Thanks.” He flips the snapback in his hands, places it backwards on top of his head, and starts walking away, a hand raised lazily in goodbye. “See you ’round then, Bitty.”

“See you around, Parse,” Bitty echoes.

“Goodbye, Valkyria,” Elle adds.

At that, Parse and Valkyria stop in their tracks, both of them looking over their shoulders, unreadable looks on both their faces. “Call me Val,” she corrects, and then the two of them are gone.

“Did she—did she just—?” Elle asks blankly.

“Oh, my God,” Bitty says, equally surprised. “you’re _friends_ with _Valkyria Parson_ _.”_

“Val,” Elle corrects absent-mindedly, still staring down the hall.

If Bitty hadn’t been so shocked by the earlier revelation, he probably would’ve suspected what was happening then.

As it is, that moment really _was_ the start of the end for them. It’s just as well that Bitty didn’t realize; eight in the morning isn’t any time to have a life-changing epiphany, at least not for Bitty and Elle, as demonstrated by the immediately ensuing conversation:

“Oh, my _God,”_ Elle says, horrified, “we’re idiots!”

Bitty frowns. “Wait, what?”

Elle bares her teeth at him. “We just missed the perfect opportunity to ask if Val would want to date Isolde!”

Bitty stares down at her, then smacks a hand over his forehead. “Oh, my God,” he says, echoing Elle, “we’re _idiots.”_

Elle just plants her face in the carpet and growls in frustration.

 

___

 

Alright, so they botched _that_ opportunity, but Bitty’s certain more are coming. They only get closer to Parse and Valkyria, as if acknowledging their friendship was all that was needed to pull them down into the quicksand of their extended circle.

Parse tags him in a particularly popular tweet, and now Bitty has a bunch of new followers, including some the Aces and Parse’s younger sister, who’s Bitty’s age and shares a surprising number of interests. They end up fast friends, he and Carrie, and Elle gets along amazingly well with her Fortindair.

Parse starts sending him and Jack postcards from the cities he plays in, and Bitty ends up putting a few of the more ridiculous ones on the fridge. (What? He has a good sense of humor; he can acknowledge that Parse is moderately funny.)

Parse gets his number from Jack, and starts sending him texts directly. Occasionally it’s ridiculous selfies, mostly it’s pictures of his cats, and an increasing amount of times it’s regular conversation—just two friends catching up, including each in the other’s life.

It’s…nicer than Bitty thought it would be, and easier, too—

Being Kent Parson’s friend, that is.

 

___

 

Between the Aces’ and Falcs’ playoff runs, and Bitty having to mentor some midyear hires at his workplace, there isn’t actually much opportunity to sit down and broach the ‘would you please let your daemon date my boyfriend’s daemon?’ topic. It’s not something he and Elle particularly want to do over the phone or through Skype, but those options are starting to look more and more like the only viable ones, to their increasing frustration.

Then Parse goes and ruins their plans by getting himself a girlfriend.

Elle and Bitty are _not_ pleased, to say the least.

 

___                                     

 

The problem is this:

Bitty’s poured a lot of time and effort into getting close to Parse expressly for the purpose of asking him to let Isolde date Val. It seemed to be the best solution to a thorny problem—Jack didn’t want to date Parse, sure, but Isolde—

Well, Isolde deserved to have all the love she could find.

Unfortunately, Bitty and Elle have spent this whole time assuming that Val still felt the same. In fact, their biggest worry was that _Parse_ would be similarly hung up on Jack, and that Val wouldn’t want to get involved unless they let Kent date Jack, too. Bitty, over the course of these past few months, has decided that he _might_ be okay with that, too. If that was the thing needed to seal the deal. After all, Kent was nice enough, and friendly, and absolutely hilarious when he got on one of his tweetstorms about getting ganged up on by all the felines in his life, and, _Lord_ , could that boy play hockey—

So. Bitty and Elle have decided that they could _both_ share. If needed to. For Isolde’s sake. And maybe a bit for Jack’s sake, too, and a tiny, _tiny_ bit for Parse’s.

(After all, Bitty’s heart still aches to think of Parse’s smile when he told him Jack had missed him. Nobody should ever look that sad when they’re smiling.)

Anyway, the thought that Kent and Val might not jump at the chance to accept their magnanimous offer had honestly not crossed their minds, and yet that’s the situation they seem to find themselves mired in.

“What does he even see in her?” Bitty mutters, staring at the Instagram selfie Parse posted of him and his girlfriend. _One month!!!_ the caption reads. Bitty never pictured Parse to be the sentimental type who catalogued miniscule anniversaries like that, but here they are.

(Bitty ignores the fact that he counted off all _his_ monthly anniversaries with Jack, too. That has no bearing on this, and, besides, it was _completely_ different.)

“I would think that’d be obvious,” Elle mutters, nosing the phone screen, and Bitty can see what she’s getting at:

The girlfriend—Lena Kirkman, as they’ve deduced through their snooping—is tall, pale-skinned, dark-haired, and blue-eyed.

In other words, Kent Parson’s got a type.

(And Bitty isn’t it. But that doesn’t matter, so Bitty’s not upset at _all_.

He’s not.)

 

___

 

The trouble is that Parse actually seems _happy_ with the woman. Happy enough to get serious about her, and Bitty suddenly understands why Jack had assumed he was friends with Parse just because Parse mentioned him in conversations, because Lena gets mentioned a _lot_ in their text messages. Even completely innocuous ones turn out to be about her in some way:

 

 **Parse** _[6:24 p.m.]_

yo quick question, what wine goes best with salmon???

 

 **Bitty** _[6:24 p.m.]_

Seafood is always paired best with white wine, obviously.

 

 **Parse** _[6:24 p.m.]_

no I KNOW, but which brand???

 

 **Bitty** _[6:25 p.m.]_

Price range?

 

 **Parse** _[6:26 p.m.]_

not an issue

 

 **Parse** _[6:26 p.m.]_

fuck that makes me sound like a tool

 

 **Parse** _[6:26 p.m.]_

ignore that please

 

 **Bitty** _[6:26 p.m.]_

Lol. Too late for that, I already knew.

 

 **Parse** _[6:27 p.m.]_

:(

 

 **Bitty** _[6:27 p.m.]_

Anyway, Chêne Bleu’s Aliot is really good.

 

 **Parse** _[6:29 p.m.]_

yeah? alright I’ll get it

 

 **Parse** _[6:29 p.m.]_

thanks, dude. Lena’s coming over tomorrow and I want to pull out the big guns

 

 **Parse** _[6:30 p.m.]_

figured I’d better ask my favorite food connoisseur instead of winging it and making a fool of myself ;)

 

Bitty’s mouth turns down. _Don’t use me to woo your girlfriend_ , he wants to send, but even he knows that that sounds ridiculous. Asking for help is what friends do for each other, after all, and he and Parse are friends.

 _You’re welcome,_ he texts instead, and puts down his phone.

 

___

 

Jack meets Lena in June when he heads out to Vegas for the NHL Awards.

“She’s nice,” is all he has to say. “Parse seems happy.”

“Mmhm,” Bitty says, his eyes on Isolde, who’s barely said a word since they got home. “And Val?”

“Val’s good,” Isolde says tonelessly. “She’s—she likes Samson. Seems serious about him. Which is good. I’m glad for her and Parse. They deserve to be happy.”

Elle thinks at him, alarmed, _Oh, shit._

Bitty can’t help but agree. 

Jack, bless his oblivious heart, keeps talking, unaware of the tension in the room: “—and if we’re free, he’d love it if we could come.”

Bitty pulls his attention back to the conversation at hand. “Hm? What was that, hon? Sorry, I was distracted.” _By your daemon’s obvious heartbreak and depression_ _,_ he doesn’t say.

(Well, that was probably a bit of an exaggeration, but judging by Isolde’s drooping shoulders and downcast eyes, not by much.)

Jack quirks a smile. “Parse invited us over for his birthday party. It’s on the 4th of July.”

“Oh!” Bitty perks up. “That’d be lovely—where’s he having it?”

“His house in Ithaca,” Jack explains.

Elle winces, her ears flattening. “That’ll be a bit of a trip.”

Jack hesitates. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he says carefully, but it’s obvious he’s hoping they won’t take him up on that offer.

“Don’t be silly,” Bitty says, “of course we’re going to go.”

Jack’s smile could light up the room.

 

___

 

On the day of the party, Bitty checks his reflection on his phone’s camera for what must be the twentieth time, Jack chirping him mercilessly for being nervous about what a bunch of hockey bros are going to think about him.

“I’m not nervous!” Bitty protests, making a face at him. He stops fiddling with his bowtie, deciding to leave it. “It’s just that I want to make a good impression!”

(He _is_ nervous—he doesn’t know why, though. It’s just Parse’s birthday party, and there’s no reason to be this nervous over a friend’s birthday party.

…even if said friend was someone he once seriously considered asking to be his metamour, who had instead found himself a very attractive significant other that _also_ happened to be taller than Bitty.)

Jack looks at him disbelievingly. “On the Aces? You _do_ know that they’re based in Vegas, don’t you?”

“The city of sin and home to the trashiest of trash sons, yes, we’re aware,” Elle says dryly. She flicks her tail against Jack’s wrist, and he smoothes a hand absent-mindedly over her head.

“Yes,” Jack says pointedly, “so the fact that you’re bringing a home-made pie is likely to cement you permanently amongst their list of favorite people.”

Bitty sniffs. “Says you.” Besides, it’s not the _Aces_ Bitty wants to win over—it’s Kent and Val.

Jack reaches over and takes his hand. “Bits,” he says reassuringly, “they’d be crazy not to love you.”

Bitty looks down at their laced fingers. “Think so?”

“Bitty,” Jack declares solemnly, “I _know_ so.”

Bitty exhales and wills himself to believe him.

 

___

 

They arrive a little early, if the lack of people at the house is anything to go by. The door to the back is open, an ostentatious bouquet of red, white, and blue balloons marking the entrance. Nobody comes to greet them, though a few players do call out a friendly, “Hey!” to Jack, recognizing him from playing against the Falcs. Most of the ten or so people present are congregating by the ridiculously-sized pool, dressed in brightly colored Hawaiian shirts and swim clothes. The luau theme is echoed throughout the whole backyard, from the fresh plumeria blossoms strung above everyone’s heads to the vibrant, flawlessly draped tablecloths; from the whimsically flickering tea lights to the elegantly catered buffet they have set up; from the massive, tropical-themed birthday cake in the center of the dining area to the gigantic banner proclaiming _Happy Birthday, Kent and Val!_ hanging across the whole back façade of the house.

“Oh, my God,” Elle says, staring up at it. “I can’t believe they used the design from the banners they’ve got up at the T-Mobile Arena.”

“Ha, you think they picked it out themselves? Nah, brah—they fucking hate that banner. You should’ve seen their faces when they saw it first thing this morning,” someone says, her voice relentlessly amused.

Bitty and Elle swing around to see a familiar young woman and her daemon smirking right at them.

“Carrie!” Bitty exclaims. “It’s lovely to finally meet you!”

“Likewise,” Carrie says, raising her hand in a two-fingered wave.

As Jack steps forward to hug her with a pleased laugh, Bitty takes the opportunity to observe her in person, noting how similar in looks she is to her brother—she’s got the same smirk as Parse, not to mention the same eyes, the same nose, the same blond cowlick.

““Good to see you,” Jack says, with the quirk to his mouth that would be a wide, wide grin from anybody else.

“Good to see you, too, Zimms, Izzy,” she says easily. “Hey, you want a necklace?” She dangles a handful of plastic beaded necklaces at them, and Bitty reaches out to take one, slipping it over his head.

“Take another,” her daemon says, nodding at Elle. Bitty blinks, surprised to hear him speaking so soon, and belatedly notices that he’s wearing a necklace, too. The medallion on it reads ‘KVP BDAY BASH 2018’ in looping, cursive, capital letters.

“Um, thank you,” Bitty says cautiously, grabbing another necklace for Elle.

“No problem,” the daemon—Fortindair—answers. “Like, why the hell should we miss out on the bling, am I right?” He directs this question at Elle, who huffs a laugh and accepts the necklace with good grace. Isolde is already wearing hers, Bitty can see.

“Elle, have you met Carrie’s daemon?” Isolde asks politely.

“No, can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” Elle answers, sending an amused look the eagle’s way.

“Well, not in person, certainly, but we’re internet friends,” Fortindair says. “Doesn’t that count?”

“No,” Jack and Isolde answer in unison, and Carrie and her daemon snicker.

“Figures you’d think that,” Carrie says, shrugging. “Bitty and Elle, meet Fortindair. Dair, meet Elle and Bitty.” She gestures between her daemon and Bitty, then raises a challenging brow at Jack. “There? We satisfied your Canadian sensibilities now?”

“Yes, thank you,” Isolde answers primly, and Dair lets out a piercing shriek of a laugh, as wild as the grin that breaks over Carrie’s face.

“Carrie!” a familiar voice calls out. “Carrie, where are—oh, hey! You guys arrived!”

When Bitty turns around, Kent’s right behind him, wearing a grin that matches his sister’s.

“Good to see you, man,” he says, pulling first Bitty into a quick hug, and then Jack. “You grab some food yet? Here, let me take that from you—”

“Kent Virgil Parson,” Bitty says sharply, holding the present in his hands above his head, “you will do no such thing! You are the guest of honor, and I am perfectly capable of taking this over to the gift table by myself!”

Kent blinks, and then laughs. “Well,” he says, amused, running a hand through his sun-bleached hair, “guess I’ve been put in my place, then.” 

“You have,” Bitty says imperiously.

Kent exchanges a wry smile with Jack. “Okay, well, I’ll let you drop that off, _if_ you promise to go have some fun right after,” he says, jerking a thumb at the various games and activities arrayed behind him.

Bitty blinks. “Is that…is that a bounce house?”

“Heck, yeah,” Parse and Carrie say in unison, and then bump their fists.

“For all ages, too,” Parse adds, grinning.

“…is that a good idea?” Elle asks.

“What? It’s a _great_ idea! What birthday party is complete without a bounce house?” says a voice form behind them, and when they whirl around, Val is standing there, smirking at them.

“Val!” Isolde says, coming forward to greet her. “Happy birthday!”

“Hey, Isolde,” Val says, tilting down her head to bop their noses together. She pulls back right after, going so far as to step away; Bitty registers the motion and frowns.

Before he can say anything to Elle, Val is walking over and greeting her, too. “Glad you guys could make it,” she says casually, brushing the side of Elle’s head before moving over to Parse’s side. “Yo, Erra wanted me to tell you that Chopper and Tina are out front.”

“Oh, shit, already? Lemme go get them—Tina shouldn’t be walking around in her condition,” Parse says, looking a little alarmed.

Val bares her teeth. “She’s pregnant, Kent.”

“Exactly—kid’s coming any day now, she shouldn’t be on her feet. I bet Chopper’s hovering and stressing her out, too.” Parse tsks and shakes his head, then flashes them a quick smile. “Well. I guess that’s my cue to go make the rounds, but I’ll be back, ’kay?”

“Sure, Parse,” Jack says warmly. “We’ll be right here.”

Kent shoots them a few finger guns, which somehow manages to be both dorky _and_ endearing. “Cool,” he says, and then he and Val are off.

Bitty watches them a moment longer, then frowns, thoughtful. _Is it just me, or did he seem less…_ touchy _than usual?_

 _Not just you,_ Elle affirms.

_Mm. Wonder what’s up with that._

It’s definitely _something,_ Bitty realizes. As the party continues and more and more guests arrive, he observes Parse greeting person after person, and every greeting is accompanied by a combination of bear hugs, back slaps, high-fives, and fist-bumps. Val, likewise, nuzzles her fellow daemons, paws them affectionately, and is generally always touching one or two of her teammates.

They don’t really touch Bitty or Elle, or Jack or Isolde, for that matter. _I guess it’s a team thing?_ Elle guesses.

Which _would_ make sense. Bitty shrugs and decides to let it go for now, turning and smiling at Carrie and one of the Aces’ d-men and continuing their conversation about mini-pies.

 

___

 

About two hours after the party is in full-swing, Carrie cuts off in the middle of her sentence, staring at something over Bitty’s shoulder. “Oh, great,” she murmurs. “The Wicked Witch of the West has arrived.”

Bitty turns to face the same direction, frowning. “Who’re you talking about?”

“Who, us? We didn’t say anything,” Dair answers, all false piety, but Carrie jerks her chin at the entrance, where a tall, slim brunette has just sauntered in, her crow daemon sitting on her shoulder.

“Hi!” she calls out, stretching the word so it sounds like she’s singing it, waving with her hand held high above her head. She’s got a pair of two thousand dollar Versace sunglasses perched on her nose, and her hair is perfectly styled so that it falls to her waist in a straight, elegant waterfall.

Kent immediately perks up from where he’s helping the balloon guy make animals for some of his teammates’ kids. “Babe!” he calls out, grinning widely.

Bitty gets a sinking feeling in his stomach, suddenly recognizing the woman from all the pictures Parse posts of her.

Parse jogs over to her, and she places her hands possessively on his shoulders, her Manolo Blahnik heels giving her an inch or two on him. Parse tilts his head up to accept her kiss, smiling as they separate.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetie,” the woman says, pushing her hand through his hair, and Parse leans into the touch, eyes closed.

“S’okay, I know you were busy,” he answers back, his hands resting easily on her waist.

“On the fucking Fourth of July? What the hell else could you be doing? It’s a national fucking holiday, you bitch, and you flew in from Vegas _yesterday_ ,” Carrie mutters beneath her breath, and Bitty has to stop himself from grunting in agreement.

“Please tell me he’s going to break up with her soon,” Dair says back, just as quietly.

“She’ll be out the door as soon as she realizes he’s not dumb enough to marry her without a pre-nup,” Carrie promises.

“Ugh. That could take _forever_ , though. He’s such a stereotypical blond sometimes, she’ll think he’s an easy mark for _months_ _,”_ Dair says.

“Is that—do you—she’s not _really_ with him just for his money, is she?” Isolde says, popping up out of nowhere to look up at them in horror. When Bitty looks for Jack, he’s still over talking with Parse’s friend Swoops—Isolde must have just walked over to check up on them.

Carrie and Dair stare at Isolde, clearly caught off-guard. They quickly look at each other, conferring silently before they turn matching reassuring smiles on Isolde.

“Nah, she likes him a lot as a person, too,” Carrie says.

“She even brings him Starbucks after practice,” Dair adds.

Isolde frowns. “But Parse doesn’t like coffee after he works out. It makes him too jittery,” she states.

“Uhhhhh, he’s okay with it if it’s from her?” Carrie says, scrambling quickly.

“Oh,” Isolde says softly, unhappy. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Mm. Yeah. Totally,” Carrie says, nodding, and Bitty is tempted to ask her to elaborate, but that’s not really his place, is it?

Bitty steers the conversation to other topics, but keeps an eye out for Parse and his girlfriend. Parse walks around the party with his arm slung casually around Lena’s waist, grinning widely any time she turns to whisper something into his ear, his head tilted so that her cherry-red lips graze his skin with every word. He occasionally decamps to get her drinks, reappearing to hand her the new glass and accept the kiss to his cheek, his hand finding its way back to the small of her back. Every time she speaks, he listens intently; every time she laughs, he laughs, too; everywhere she walks, he follows like an over-obedient lapdog.

No, scratch that, Bitty can acknowledge that he’s being petty about this whole thing. Is Jack any better with him, honestly? Parse’s not too obnoxious about it, the PDA kept strictly below PG-13, but the way he acts is so _obviously_ centered around her, every action solicitous and considerate of her needs, that Bitty has heard more than once from several bystanders about how cute they are together, what a good-looking couple they make.

What’s honestly worse is the way Val acts, strolling after Parse and Lena with the latter’s crow daemon settled on her back, letting herself be the moving perch for him so that Lena doesn’t have to hold him. It’s something your daemon does for your lover’s other half, and it’s not anything that Bitty’s ever seen out of her.

Jack seems unaffected, but Isolde—

Isolde watches the display with huge, hungry eyes, her dark irises a mirror of envy as she stares at Lena’s daemon, his beak possessively running over her ears, the side of her neck, nuzzling against her throat, his every move practically screaming, ‘Mine! Mine! Mine!’

Elle isn’t much better honestly, a roil of illogical anger and hurt seeping through their bond, and after the third kiss Parse and Lena exchange, Bitty excuses himself from the conversation.

“I need a drink,” he mutters, and then goes off to find one. Or two. Or several.

 

___

 

Halfway through his third margarita, a low growl cuts through the music and chatter, causing everyone to go silent.

When Bitty turns to look, Lena is standing stock-still, her hand outstretched towards Val, who has her head ducked down. Val registers everyone’s stares, then sighs, rolling her shoulders and causing Lena’s crow daemon to lose his perch and flap his way onto his human’s arm.

“Sorry,” Val tells Lena. “Thought you were going to touch me.”

“Val, what on earth! I was trying to get Samson!” Lena explains.

Val’s shoulders hunch further. “No, I know. It’s just—you got a bit close. Sorry.”

Lena frowns at her. “Too close? Val, I would barely brush your fur, that’s noth—”

“It’s _not_ nothing,” Val protests, raising her voice.

Parse steps over to Lena, placing a hand on her waist. “She just doesn’t like it, babe,” he soothes, pulling her close to kiss her cheek in placation. “What can I say? Lionesses are finicky.”

“Yeah,” Val seconds, her tail swishing, eyes still fixed warily on Lena’s hand. “We are.”

Lena doesn’t say anything for a long second, then sighs, shaking her head. “Sorry about that, then,” she says, smiling at Val. Bitty doesn’t think it looks like a very apologetic one. “Didn’t mean to stress you out.”

“No problem,” Val says, and Lena relaxes and tugs Parse towards the dancefloor again, the tension in the room easing as everybody goes back to what they were doing beforehand.

Well. Almost everybody.

“What was that about?” Jack murmurs, appearing at Bitty’s elbow, brow furrowed in worry. He directs the question to Carrie, who can only shrug.

“Val doesn’t like it when people try to touch her,” she explains, waving a hand.

Jack frowns. “But aren’t they—they’ve been together a while,” he says. “I would’ve assumed—” He stops.

“Yeah, well. Guess she changed,” Carrie says, obliquely referencing Jack and Parse’s history.

“Guess so,” Jack says slowly, he and Isolde looking at each other with troubled expressions.

Carrie sighs. “Well. I need a drink. You guys in?” she asks Bitty and a still-brooding Jack.

Bitty nods on both their behalves.

 

___

 

Drinking that much inevitably results in nature calling, and Bitty makes his excuses and peels away soon after.

Fifteen minutes into what will eventually become a twenty-minute search for an unoccupied bathroom, Bitty solidifies his opinion that Parse’s house is unreasonably big.

“How many spare bedrooms does anybody need anyhow?” Elle complains, slurring her words irritably and walking just a bit too carefully to be mistaken for completely sober.

“Wasn’t that last room a playpen for his cats?” Bitty says, furrowing his brow. He knows he’s drunk, but he isn’t _that_ drunk. He’s not at the point that he’s seeing things, he doesn’t think.

Elle snorts. “Yeah, it was. And that _definitely_ means he’s got too many spare bedrooms.”

“I don’t know, isn’t nice that he takes care of his cats? I think it’s cute,” Bitty argues. The way Parse and Val dote over Kit and Purrs is one of their biggest selling points, in his opinion. 

“That was the second playpen,” Elle points out.

“Alright, so he’s a crazy cat lady in the making,” Bitty allows. “We knew that already, didn’t we?”

Elle snorts in disdain, but the effect is ruined by the fact that she hiccups right afterward.

Eventually, they manage to find a restroom on the third floor, and take care of their business. They’re wandering back to the party, meandering through the hallways just a _little_ bit slowly, taking their time looking at the pictures on the walls—there’s a really cute one of Parse holding a bunny-shaped Val when he was a toddler that about melts Bitty’s heart—when they hear an angry, “What the hell!”

Elle and Bitty freeze in their tracks, glancing down the hallway, matching looks of guilt painted on both their faces—

—but there’s nobody there.

“Seriously, what the fuck?” the same person demands, and Bitty realizes that they aren’t talking to them—they’re in the room down the hall, and they’re loud enough to be heard, is all.

“Look, I’m sorry,” somebody says in reply, sounding earnest, and, oh, they know that voice.

Bitty and Elle perk up in interest.

“That’s Parse, isn’t it?” Elle whispers theatrically to Bitty.

“Shhh,” Bitty says, waving his hand at her and ignoring the way she subsequently nips at his ankle. They’ve got more important things to worry about.

“Sorry!” somebody else shouts, and, oh, they know this voice, too.

“Isn’t that his girlfriend?” Bitty says to Elle.

“Shhh,” she answers, already creeping forward to position herself just down the small entrance area to what must be the master bedroom. Bitty shuts up and lets her, because she has the superior ears for this sort of thing.

“Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover this, pal!” Lena shouts at him, incensed. “What the fuck was that downstairs, huh!”

Bitty frowns. She couldn’t possibly be talking about Val’s completely justified warning not to touch her, could she?

“Look, Val’s just not comfortable when you try and touch her in public,” Parse replies, and, oooh, she _is_.

“That skank,” Elle hisses, and Bitty nods fervently in agreement. Who does she think she is? She’s barely dated Parse for two months—Isolde didn’t let Bitty touch her for _two years_. It’s perfectly reasonable for Val to be wary of her. Elle and Bitty are completely on her side out of sheer—sheer _righteousness_.

“In public? _In public?”_ Lena screeches. “She doesn’t even let me touch her in private, Kent!”

“Well, she’s kinda cautious that way,” Parse says, placating. “You gotta give her time.”

“Time? _Time?_ I let you touch Samson after our third date!”

Bitty and Elle wince. Elle let Jack touch her after their first.

“Does that make _us_ skanks, too?” Elle whispers.

“Actually, if it does, doesn’t that make us the _bigger_ skanks?” Bitty replies, frowning.

“Uhhh, if I recall correctly, I haven’t actually touched him yet?” Parse replies, and that’s—interesting. Elle cocks her ears, curious. “I mean, I’m flattered that you offered, honest, but wasn’t that a bit too soon?”

“Oh, no,” Elle says, distressed. “He’ll definitely think we’re skanks.”

Bitty glumly suspects that this would be true, then narrows his eyes. “Wait a minute,” he says, “why would that even come up? We’re not gonna ask him to touch you.”

Elle looks up at him with wide eyes. “Oh. Right,” she says. She wags her tail once, then stills.

Inside the room, the conversation continues:

“I mean, seriously, what if I’d been a dick? You barely knew me at that point! I wasn’t gonna touch Samson just because you felt like you had to offer!”

“I offered because I wanted you to!”

“Well, maybe I just wanted to move a little slower!” Parse says, and Bitty can practically picture the way he’d wave his hands to emphasize his point. “Fuck, Lena, not everybody has to go at the speed of light.”

“The speed of—do you even hear what you’re saying? It was three dates!”

“And I’m saying that that’s kinda fast for us!” Parse argues.

“Wait a minute, are you calling me a slut?” Lena demands, sounding scandalized.

“No! Jesus, of course not! I’m just saying Val and I aren’t the touchy-feely type!”

“You goddamn liar! Your daemon is all fucking over all your fucking teammates’ daemons all the fucking time! And she barely touches mine!”

“Well, that’s because she wants to get to know him first!”

Lena scoffs. “Oh, really? You sure it’s not because you’re secretly a fa—”

At this point, a low growl echoes through the wall, and Bitty and Elle shiver in response.

“Get out of my house, you bitch,” Val says, a cold command, her voice all icy rage and unforgiving steel.

There’s dead silence for a moment, then Lena saying, apologetic, placating, “Kent, that’s not what I—”

“Did I fucking stutter?” Val interrupts, raising her voice. “Get the hell out of my house before I wrap my jaws around your flimsy daemon and drag you out of it.”

“You—are you just going to let her talk to me like that?” Lena demands, back to being insulted. 

“Yeah, he is,” Val snaps right after. “Sorry that you got the memo late, but the position of head bitch in this house is already taken. Find somebody else if you want a doormat.”

An offended silence. Then the door to the master bedroom swings dramatically open, Lena storming out of it, her crow daemon’s feathers ruffled in affront where he’s resting on top of her head like a particularly ugly hat.

She stops dead in her tracks immediately after, mostly because Bitty and Elle are drunken idiots and did _not_ have the presence of mind to duck into one of the cat playpens _before_ she proceeded to leave, despite having gotten plenty of warning, and have now been caught red-handed, eavesdropping on yet another one of Kent Parson’s private conversations.

“Drat,” Elle mutters. _Why do we always get caught?_ she complains to Bitty. _We’ve really got to get better at this sort of thing._

Bitty would reply, except he’s too busy dying of mortification. “Hi!” he says. “We were just looking for the restroom.”

Lena narrows her eyes at him. “Right,” she says. “Well, _we_ were just leaving.” With that, she stalks past him, head held high, her crow similarly turning his beak up at them.

Bitty and Elle turn to watch her go, then pause, unsure of what to do next. It would be awkward to follow her, but staying here and facing Parse after _that_ disaster of a conversation is equally unappealing.

The choice is taken out of their hands when Val drawls, “So, we’re assuming that you once again heard everything.”

Bitty and Elle wince simultaneously. “Not _everything_ ,” Elle hedges.

Parse snorts. “Right. Only the important things, then.”

Bitty winces again, and gathers the courage to finally turn around and face the music.

The first thing he sees is Parse, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed and his sleeves rolled up, the position setting the muscles of his forearms to full advantage. His tie is hanging loosely around his neck, his hair looks like somebody’s been running their hands through it, and there’s a lipstick smudge on the corner of his mouth, dark red like a new bruise.

In short, he looks a debauched mess. Which _should_ be a lot less attractive than he’s making it look, but, then again, this is Kent Parson. Bitty ought to be used to him being unfairly sexy.

 _How come Val always looks so put-together, huh?_ Elle whines in his mind, facing a similar problem, and when Bitty takes a second look, Val is indeed sitting back on her haunches, looking far too elegant for somebody who just threatened to maim somebody. She’s a gorgeous daemon, beautiful from head to toe—Bitty used to think that she was too lovely for somebody like Parse, too strong and brave to be an accurate manifestation of his soul, but he knows better now. Just like he knows that if he’d ever voiced such a thought in Val’s hearing, he’d likely be following in Lena’s footsteps, getting tossed out of Val’s house and permanently banned.

Parse raises a perfectly sculpted brow. “So, care to tell me when you started listening in?”

Bitty bites his lip. “I think…you were…maybe apologizing? For Valkyria— _Val_  not letting your girlfriend touch her? I think?”

“Which was _not_ cool, by the way,” Elle interjects, just a touch too loudly. Bitty does his best not to wince again.

Parse sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Great,” he mutters. “Just great.”

Val ignores him, looking right at Elle. “Don’t tell anyone,” she orders, flexing her paws in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture.

“We wouldn’t!” Elle replies, affronted.

Val nods. “Good,” she says, then pauses. “If you do tell anyone, though, I’d prefer if you emphasized the fact that _I’m_ the one causing problems, not Kent.”

Bitty blinks, surprised, in the same second that Parse bursts out, “Jesus, Val, what the fuck—”

“Am I _wrong_ , Kent?” she asks, baring her teeth in a snarl.

“Absolutely, yes! Christ! There’s nothing the matter with you—she shouldn’t have tried to touch you!” Parse says.

“Exactly!” Elle seconds. “That was a bad move, and you totally should’ve bitten off her hand!”

Val looks at her, her eyes glinting with amusement. “What, and gotten us arrested for assaulting a human?” she says.

“She’d deserve it,” Bitty and Elle say together.

Parse and Val look at them for a second before bursting into laughter.

“Well, excuse _me_ ,” Elle mutters, miffed.

Parse and Val just shake their heads. “You guys should head back to the party,” Parse says. “We’ll join you in a bit.”

Bitty hesitates. “Are y’all—alright?”

Parse runs a tired hand over his face, and tilts his head from one side to the other, cracking his neck. “Yeah, we’re good. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, this sorta sucks—but trust us, we’re gonna be just fine. This isn’t our first rodeo.”

“It’s not even our worst one,” Val says, dry.

Parse gives a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, God, that’s true.” He tucks a hand into his pocket, using the other to wave Bitty off. “Go on, Bittle, we’ll be there in a sec.”

Bitty bites his lip. “Well, okay. If you insist.”

Bitty and Elle turn to go, following Parse’s instructions. They don’t get three steps before Elle stops and turns right back around. “Okay, no, I changed my mind,” she says, walking right up to Val. _“Are_ you alright? I mean, it’s okay if you’re not, and if you want to talk about it, I promise we won’t breathe a word to _anybody_. It’s okay if you don’t, too, of course! But what she said to you was _not_ okay, and you shouldn’t think _you’re_ the one causing problems, ’cause you’re _not_ _.”_

“Uhhh,” Val says, staring down at her.

“Look, just ’cause your human’s dating someone is no reason at all to let them touch you, and I’m frankly worried that you think you’re anywhere _close_ to being at fault—”

“That’s what I keep telling her,” Parse interjects, smirking just a little.

Val wrinkles her snout. “Kent, you can’t deny that it’s getting to be an issue, though. I’ve really got to get over this hang-up of mine if we’re ever going to get anywhere with anybody. Lena’s the fourth person to break up with us over this.”

Bitty frowns. “I don’t care if she’s the fiftieth; you are entirely in the right. I didn’t touch Isolde until Jack and I had been dating for two years, and _I_ didn’t break up with him. You’re just dating the wrong people, is all.”

Parse stares at him, wide-eyed. “Oh.”

Bitty has the errant thought: how long did it take for Parse to touch Isolde? He tucks the question behind his teeth and soldiers on; that isn’t any of his business, and he isn’t going to ask. “Anyway, that’s all we wanted to say.”

Elle nods and makes to turn around, then swings back, saying, “Oh! And it’s been a wonderful party! Very—very entertaining!”

“Yes!” Bitty seconds.

“And what a lovely home!”

“Absolutely!”

“And—and happy birthday!”

“The happiest!”

Parse bites down on his lip, but even that’s not quite enough to hide the grin peeking out at the corners. “How drunk are you right now?”

“Not very.” Bitty turns his nose up at him. What a rude question to ask, honestly.

Parse shakes his head. “I’m not trying to be rude,” he says, and, oh, Bitty said that last sentence out loud, didn’t he? Whoops. “I was just going to offer to show you to your bedroom already if you wanted to lie down.”

“My bedroom?” Bitty asks, frowning.

Parse hesitates. “Uh, yeah? I thought—well, you guys drove up, didn’t you? I thought I was putting you up so you wouldn’t have to leave until tomorrow.” He must register Bitty’s confused expression, because he immediately starts back-tracking: “Unless you have other plans—sorry, I guess I just assumed from when I was talking with Jack—I guess I didn’t make my invitation clear enough—”

“No, it’s fine,” Bitty says. “That’s—we’d love to stay here, honest.”

Parse frowns at him. “Really?” he says, skeptical.

Bitty rolls his eyes. “Better than the Hilton.”

Parse and Val bark out a laugh. “Oh, God, yes,” Val says. “Please don’t stay there.”

“We’d never forgive ourselves if we let our friends stay at a _Hilton_ ,” Parse adds.

Bitty nods. “Alright, then. Where’s this room of mine?”

 

___

 

It turns out to be one of the spare bedrooms they passed on the second floor, a cozy room painted in a calm green with eastward windows.

Bitty sees the gigantic bed and immediately has the urge to throw himself on it.

“Go ahead,” Parse says, grinning. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

So he does, burying himself in the pillows and the fresh cotton sheets, stretching his arms out as far they can go.

“This is nice,” Elle says, rolling around next to him.

“You sound surprised,” Parse says, and when Bitty lifts his head he’s smirking right at them.

Bitty makes a face at him. “You hush, mister. I bet you didn’t even pick out any of this stuff.”

“Nope,” Parse says cheerfully, coming to sit at the foot of the bed.

Bitty squints at him, noting the way there’s still tension riding in his shoulders, how he’s got his arms crossed against his chest. “Come lie down,” he demands, patting the space next to him.

Parse raises his brows. “Uh, I don’t think—”

“You just had a horrible breakup,” Bitty interrupts, “ _and_ I bet you’ve been running around all day, preparing your own birthday party. You need a break.” He pats the bed again, insistent.

Parse exchanges a look with Val, but he toes off his shoes and does what Bitty asks, sighing as he stretches himself along the length of the bed.

“Now, isn’t that better?” Elle says, pleased.

“Mmph,” Parse agrees, half-muffled by the pillow. He’s got his eyes closed, and now that Bitty can see him close up, he can tell how tired he looks, how worn at the edges he seems.

Bitty has the urge to fix his hair, and squashes it ruthlessly down.

“Isn’t this weird?” Parse murmurs after a minute, still keeping his eyes closed. It makes it easier for Bitty to answer him.

“Not really,” Bitty says. “It’s _your_ spare bedroom.”

Parse chuckles. “No, I mean—shouldn’t we at least be lying head to feet?”

Bitty snorts. “What, for plausible deniability? Sweetheart, I hate to tell you, but I’m both gay _and_ taken.”

Parse smiles, a tiny one that makes him look ten years younger, only the corner of his mouth ticking up. “No, I know,” he says. “Just—you know.” He waves his hand around. “People get weird about beds.”

Bitty shakes his head. “I’m not bothered,” he says. “We’re friends. Friends make sure their other friends take care of themselves.”

“If you say so,” Val says from the foot of the bed.

“I do say so. Now hush for a bit and get some rest.”

Parse makes a noise of disagreement, but keeps his eyes closed. He’s restless, though, fidgety and wired, with tension evident in his frame. Bitty tries to think of something funny to say, something to distract him. He wants to make him laugh, make him lose a little of that weary, heartbroken edge.

So of course Bitty opens his mouth and immediately sticks his foot in it: “You know, I never liked her anyway. You’re a hundred times better off. I mean, who even wears Manolo Blahnik to a backyard barbecue?”

Parse barks out a startled laugh, his eyes flying open—they’re dark green in this light, a surprisingly pretty color. Bitty feels glad he’s already flushed, because he suddenly gets why Parse was being weird about the whole ‘lying next to each other’ thing. It’s a little more intimate than Bitty was expecting, especially since they’re both fully clothed, and a few feet apart, and not touching anywhere anyway. They’re just friends; lying here should be less intimate than snuggling up with Shitty, and yet Bitty swears there’s still a crackle in the space between them.

 _You are so drunk,_ he tells himself, reproachful.

 _No,_ you’re _drunk,_ Elle mumbles, already half-asleep.

_No, I wasn’t—oh, never mind._

“I don’t know about that,” Parse says softly, and when Bitty focuses on him, he looks both terribly young and utterly exhausted. “You shouldn’t judge her too much—Lena’s a decent person. Just a bit harsh sometimes.”

“Are you defending her?” Bitty asks, incredulous. “After that stunt she pulled earlier?”

Parse shrugs. “I’m saying that you should cut her a break. I’m not an easy person to be with, so, to be honest, it’s more like _she’s_ better off without _me,_ right?”

Bitty stares at him. “That’s a load of total bullshit.”

Parse laughs again, closing his eyes. “No, really, I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” Bitty insists. “You’re—Parse, you’re a _catch_ _._ Anybody would be lucky to have you. _Anybody.”_

Parse just shakes his head, humming in disagreement.

“You _are,”_ Bitty insists. “You’re—you’re funny, and smart, and real hard-working. You care so much for everybody in your life, from your teammates’ nieces all the way down to your cats’ vet. You sing Britney on Skype calls, and you always say thank you for my pies, and you can’t play Egyptian Ratslap to save your life—”

“Hey!”

“—but it doesn’t matter because you are one of the most stubborn, persevering, and tenacious people I have ever met,” Bitty says, “so even in defeat you manage to go down swinging.” Bitty pauses before adding, “Even if you _are_ a sore loser.”

Parse hides his face against the pillow. “Uh. Thanks, I guess?” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Bitty says emphatically, trying and failing not to notice how the tips of Parse’s ears are going red. He has a feeling that maybe he said too much, or was too awkward or something, but that’s a problem for future, not-so-tipsy Bitty. For now, he’s feeling satisfied, because Parse doesn’t look quite so hangdog anymore, so that’s mission accomplished.

Parse clears his throat. “You know, it means a lot that you’d say that about me, considering that you’re pretty great yourself, Bits.”

Now it’s Bitty’s turn to hide his face. “Ha,” he says, deflecting, “I’m pretty run of the mill, actually.”

Parse shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. If I’m not run of the mill, _you’re_ not run of the mill.”

Looks like he might not be the only inebriated person here. Bitty snorts. “How does that even make any sense? Your daemon is a _lion_. Mine’s a common fox.”

“Hey, now, don’t knock on foxes,” Val intercedes. “We used to think I’d settle as a fox, you know.”

Bitty blinks, surprised. “Really?” he and Elle say in unison.

Parse smirks. “Yeah. We’ve got a bunch of pictures from when we were little—Val used to be a fox all the time, copying Nym.”

“Nym?” Elle asks, confused. Bitty’s positive they’ve never heard the name before.

Parse hesitates. “My dad’s daemon,” he says after a long pause. “She was a fox, like you.”

“Oh,” Elle says.

“Wanted to be just like her when we grew up,” Val adds softly. She sounds almost like a ghost, her disembodied voice coming from the foot of the bed, the rest of her unseen.

“That was sweet of you,” Bitty replies, his heart squeezing in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with that information, feels like he’s stumbled into something even more private than the earlier fight.

“Thanks,” Val says, then yawns loudly. “Oh, shoot, sorry.” She sounds embarrassed about it, which shouldn’t be as cute as it is, but Bitty’s given up on trying to make sense of his reactions and emotions this night.

“Don’t be sorry,” he insists. “You two really _do_ need to get some rest, so I’m gonna stop talking your ear off now, okay?”

Parse smiles a little, small and genuine. “Okay, Bits. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Parse keeps his eyes closed, and slowly his breathing evens out, not enough to indicate deep sleep, but certainly enough to show he’s finally relaxed.

Bitty lies there and watches over him before feeling his eyelids start feeling heavy and weighed down.

 _Just for ten minutes,_ he tells himself.

Bitty lets his eyes drift shut.

 

___

 

When Bitty wakes up, it’s Jack who’s in bed beside him.

After an embarrassing explanation where Jack lets him know that Parse basically covered for him by saying he was drunk enough that Parse felt it was best to just show him a room and sleep it off, not once mentioning his terrible eavesdropping or his insistence that Parse _get in bed with him_ , he and Jack descend the stairs and join Carrie, Parse, and their daemons for a surprisingly cozy breakfast.

“So,” Parse says in the middle of buttering his toast, “I broke up with Lena.”

Carrie drops her spoon. “Wait, what?” she exclaims, then breaks out into cheers when Parse repeats the sentence.

Parse wrinkles his nose at her. “Aren’t you a bit too happy about that?”

“Bro, I’ve been waiting for you to dump her for two fucking months, I’m happy enough to hire a sky-writer,” Carrie says bluntly.

Elle laughs despite herself, but Dair waves her off when she tries to apologize.

For Bitty’s part, he’s busy watching Jack and Isolde take the news. Jack looks—worried, actually, which Bitty wasn’t expecting but Isolde—

Isolde looks right at Val, and the hope in her eyes kindles something in Bitty’s chest.

 _You wanna try again?_ he asks Elle.

Elle looks at Parse and taps her paw against Bitty’s foot in agreement. _Yeah. Let’s._  

Bitty munches on his toast and starts drawing plans up in his head. They’re not going to miss their chance _this_ time. He and Elle will make sure of it.

 

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	10. she bares her fangs like swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a valiant attempt to follow their therapist Ben’s advice and actually make headway into ‘moving on from an unhealthy obsession with a failed relationship,’ Kent and Val have joined a few dating websites, announced to their family and friends that it was open season for blind dates, and even started seriously flirting with the people they run into at the clubs and bars they frequent.
> 
> It’s slow going, but, hey, at least they’re getting laid more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter, but let me know if I missed something. :)

* * *

 

_**CH. 10: she bares her fangs like swords** _

 

* * *

 

 

 

An overview of Kent Parson’s life in the two-and-a-half years between Epikegster and the day Jack Zimmermann starts talking to him again:

In a valiant attempt to follow their therapist Ben’s advice and actually make headway into ‘moving on from an unhealthy obsession with a failed relationship,’ Kent and Val have joined a few dating websites, announced to their family and friends that it was open season for blind dates, and even started seriously flirting with the people they run into at the clubs and bars they frequent.

It’s slow going, but, hey, at least they’re getting laid more.

 

___

 

Some conversations they have about their fragile, delicate love-lives-in-the-making:

“Mm, no, I don’t think I like him much,” Val says, peering at the picture the guy’s got on Tinder.

“You know literally nothing about him at this point,” Kent says, exasperated.

She nudges her nose against the jersey he’s wearing in the photo onscreen. “I know that any guy who supports the Wizards is a fucking joke.”

“Alright, fine, you know _one_ thing about him.”

 

___

 

“Val, please explain to me why you decided to almost break her daemon’s foot?”

“That little weasel was asking for it!”

“Okay, first off, he was a marmoset, and, second, he was the size of your goddam pinky toe! There was no reason to stomp on him!”

_“He called Britney basic.”_

“…you should have stomped harder.”

 

___

 

“Jesus fuck, is she a wannabe vampire or something?” Kent says, poking at the massive hickeys he’s got on his neck and collarbones.

“Maybe,” Val says, disinterested. “I didn’t hear any complaints about her last night, though.”

“In addition to her vampiric tendencies, she also possessed the ability to suck my brain out through my dick, so, no, I wasn’t going to complain.”

Val wrinkles her nose. “Eww, gross.”

“Val, you were _literally_ letting her daemon dry-hump you, you have _no_ room to talk.”

“Alright, fine, so we’re both trashy sluts. Are you happy now?”

“Peachy.”

 

___

 

“…how many dates do you think it will take before I can tell him to fuck off without looking like a picky asshole?”

“We could just tell him now and save ourselves the trouble.”

“Point.”

 

___

 

“Is it bad if the only reason I’m still seeing him is that he’s got season passes to all the Vegas Hearts’ games?”

“Look, I’d do a lot more to be able to see Miranda Dupont make three-pointers from literally only five feet away. Please do your best to keep his interest at least until after they play the Sparks.”

“Gotcha. Blowjobs, blowjobs, and blowjobs it is.”

 

___

 

The search for true love is admittedly entertaining, but after close to a year, Kent is…kind of exhausted.

“I thought being a millionaire would make it _easier_ to find somebody.” The words come out muffled, mostly because he’s laying facedown on his bed, his head buried amongst the pillows.

Carrie snorts. She and Dair are on spring break and decided to take advantage of his prime real estate, so they’re crashing at his house while they party it up with their college friends. It’s nice to see her, but he could do with a little less judgment. He already gets enough of that from Val, he doesn’t need it from his baby sister and her daemon, too.

No such luck, though, and he is _definitely_ feeling roasted when Carrie tells him, “Bro, it makes it easier to _find_ somebody, for sure, but everybody knows being rich and famous makes it harder to _keep_ them. Didn’t Mom’s obsession with Access Hollywood teach you that, or are your blond genes overpowering your brain cells again?”

He rolls over onto his back, feeling maudlin. “I don’t know, I kinda figured being a sports superstar instead of an actor or musician would save me from that.”

“Alas, no,” Dair quips. “Instead, they are also after you for your literal as well as metaphorical booty.”

“What booty? He got voted flattest ass in the league for the sixth year running again,” Val chips in, merciless.

“Lies and slander! From my own flesh and blood! Am I to be thus betrayed?” Kent says, waving his arm about theatrically without bothering to lift up his head.

Carrie comes and sits beside him. “Kenny,” she says gently, serious now. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a break? I mean, I know you’re still…”

 _Hung up on Jack,_ she doesn’t say. She doesn’t have to.

Kent sighs. “Yeah. I know.” He musters up a smile for her. “Don’t worry about me, kiddo, I swear I’ll be over it soon.”

She doesn’t call him out on his lie, so at least there’s that.

 

___

 

Jack signed with the Falcs earlier that year, and he played his first game against him a few weeks back.

It didn’t go so well.

“At least we won,” Val muttered, her eyes still locked on Isolde’s retreating figure.

“Yeah. At least we won,” Kent agrees, and doesn’t mention how _lost_ the both of them feel.

 

___

 

That first year Jack’s in the NHL, Kent must draft about a million letters to him in his head, all some variation of _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I’m sorry._

But he never puts it down on paper or types it out on his phone. What right does he have to talk to Jack anymore?

It’s better if he stays out of his life. There’s nothing he can give him that wouldn’t cause him hurt.

 

___

 

Jack and Isolde make the game-winning shot of the Stanley Cup finals.

 _You did it,_ Val thinks, staring at the screen. If lions could cry, she would. _Izzy, you did it, you did it._

Kent tugs her close and lets her sob into his lap.

 

___

 

Life goes on, and life is good, for the most part. They’ve got their family, their team, a decent enough dating life, even if they can’t ever seem to keep somebody past three weeks, but who cares? Their hockey is better than ever, so suck on that, haters.

Then, halfway through his tenth season, Kent gets a call from an unknown number.

“YOLO,” he says, wondering if Gopher broke his phone again and didn’t bother keeping his old number, or if one of the rookies is stranded somewhere and needs him to go and get them.

Silence from the other end.

Kent frowns. That’s never a good sign; even telemarketers talk. “Hello?” he prompts. “Is anybody there?”

“Um,” Jack Zimmermann says.

Kent is so shocked that he drops his phone into the goddamn bathtub. “Fuck!”

Val snickers. “Told you not to bring your phone in here,” she says, using her tail to flick water at him.

“That was Zimms,” Kent says, distracted, diving for his phone. He’s never before regretted buying a massive Jacuzzi-style bath so he and Val can have spa days together, but if there’s ever a moment to experience buyer’s remorse, it’s now, scrabbling for his phone at the bottom of five feet of sudsy water.

“Fuck,” Val says, splashing over to his side, her eyes wide.

Kent finally fishes the phone out, and—yeah. Yep. It’s dead.

He and Val stare at it. “Fuck our life,” they say simultaneously.

 

___

 

When they get out of the bathroom, they head immediately for their laptop, hastily dumping their phone in a bowl of rice and praying it dries out fast. Kent has a vague plan to email Dad Bob or Ms. Alicia and ask them to tell Jack that he didn’t mean to hang up on him, there was a problem with the phone, and also to please call again, his house number is—

“What the fuck is our house number?” Kent says, coming up blank.

Val bares her teeth. “How the fuck am I supposed to know! You’re the one with opposable thumbs!”

“That doesn’t mean anything! All that means is that I can operate the can opener, it does _not_ mean that I’ve memorized stuff like our emergency contact info and what my driver’s license number is! That’s _your_ job!”

“For fuck’s sake, please just call Matilda,” Val snaps, referencing their building manager, who can actually be easily accessed through the fancy intercom they’ve got.

“I’m not calling Matilda! It’s been too soon since Scrappy last threw up in the building’s foyer! She’s totally gonna judge us,” Kent says, stressed, tugging at his hair.

“Oh, sure, fine, you’d rather keep your pride than have a way to reach out to Jack and Izzy again, I see how it is—”

“Jesus _Christ_ , that’s not what I meant!” Kent bursts out. He finds the number in a three-year-old email he sent to his mother and hurriedly copies and pastes it into the iMessage he’s sending Dad Bob.

Before he can hit send, however, a notification pops up on his Skype account:

_Incoming call from Jack Zimmermann._

“Holy fucking shit,” Kent yelps, throwing his hands up like he’s being held at gunpoint.

“Answer it!” Val screams.

“I can’t, I’m fucking bare-ass naked here!” he points out.

“Then answer it, and I’ll take care of it while you put some damn clothes on!” Val snarls.

“Right! Okay! Let’s do that!” Kent taps ‘accept’ then dives to the floor, making his way to his closet by crawling on his hands and knees. The things he does for Jack Zimmermann, God. He feels hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat at the sheer absurdity of the situation, but tamps it down. Now is not the time to sound like a lunatic.

“Hi, Jack!” Val says behind him, her voice pitched too brightly. “Good to see you!”

“Um. Hi, Val. It’s, uh, it’s good to see you, too. Uh, do you know where—”

“Kent’s just getting dressed,” Val says hurriedly. She clears her throat. “Sorry for hanging up on you earlier—we were in the bath, you know, and Kent accidentally dropped his phone like a moron—”

“Hey!” Kent says.

“—but we didn’t mean to hang up on you. So. Yeah. Good to hear from you, is everything going alright?” Val asks.

“Uh, yeah, it’s—it’s going good.”

The conversation stalls for a long minute, the seconds ticking by in agonizing silence as Kent gets dressed as fast as possible. He’s making his way over to the desk when Val talks again, asking hesitantly, “Is Iz—is Isolde doing fine?”

Her face is—Jesus, her face looks like one of those photos of an army wife or something, waiting to hear if her lover’s coming home from the war. She’s up on her hindpaws, face peering anxiously at the computer camera, whiskers quivering from the tension in her frame as she waits for Jack’s answer.

“Isolde’s—she’s doing well. She’s—she’s fine. Just in the next room actually, with my boyfriend and his daemon, I could get her if you want—”

 _Boyfriend_. The word rips through Kent’s gut like barbed wire.

“No, no,” Val says, her voice surprisingly steady, even as Kent can also feel her reeling in shock. “That’s—you don’t have to do that, I wouldn’t want to bother her—”

“You wouldn’t be a bother, Val,” Jack interrupts. 

Val laughs, a short, sharp sound. “Right. Um, thanks. I’m—I’m good, though.”

Kent finally drops into the chair next to her, places his hand reassuringly on her head. “Hey, Jack,” he says, taking the plunge and looking at the screen, talking to him for the first time in years.

Jack stares back at him, exactly the same and completely different, the boy Kent loved and the man who’s breaking his heart. “Hey, Kent,” Jack says. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

And that—that just _blindsides_ Kent. “What the fuck?” Kent says, feeling hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat. “No, Jack, don’t— _I’m_ sorry, God, I’m so fucking sorry—”

“I know,” Jack says, watching him, his eyes full of emotions that Kent doesn’t know how to read anymore. “I—I accept your apology. Will—will you accept mine?”

Kent shakes his head, gasping, trying desperately to pull enough air into his lungs to talk. “Jack, there’s nothing to be sorry for—”

“That’s not true,” Jack says, stubborn and bull-headed like always, and, God, _God,_ Kent’s going to fucking cry any second now. “I should’ve—you deserved better, Parse. I should’ve—I don’t think I could’ve handled being your friend these past years, but I should’ve explained instead of just shutting you out, or cutting you off. You—you were my best friend, and you deserved better.”

He looks him and asks, “Will you forgive me?”

Kent stares back and says yes. 

 

___

 

Talking with Jack again, re-learning how to be his friend, carefully feeling out the boundaries of what they can laugh over and what Kent just needs to keep his mouth shut about—it’s good. It’s great. It’s difficult as hell, but, fuck, he’ll do it if it means Jack stays in his life.

The hardest thing is reminding himself not to be _too_ friendly, _too_ close, _too_ overly invested—he can’t afford to operate on a playbook nearly a decade out of date. Jack’ll just bolt otherwise. So, you know, he’s been doing his best to be good: silently timing their phone calls so they never last longer than forty-five minutes, never sending more than five texts a day, keeping their conversational topics to his pets, Jack’s friends, their families, and, as always, hockey. It’s a good system, and it works, Kent thinks. Nobody’s killed anybody yet, at least.

So what if he’s constantly biting back the words, _I missed you, I missed you, come back, Zimms, I missed you?_ That’s the shit that got him in this mess in the first place, and you’d better believe he’s not messing up this time.

 

___

 

Jack has a boyfriend. Ironically, it’s that cute blond with the fox daemon who overheard Kent being a total dick to him, so Kent’s definitely expecting no support from that quarter.

(Also, Jack _totally_ has a fucking type, jeez. Blond? Check. Shorter than him? Check. Cowlick? Check. Bomb-ass twitter game? Game, set, and match.

…not that Kent’s been stalking the guy, or anything.)

To his complete and utter surprise, it turns out that Bittle actually encourages their friendship, though? Apparently, he feels it would be good for both of them to get closure and move on? And Kent would totally understand that second bit, but he and Bittle have very different definitions of ‘closure’ and ‘moving on,’ as it turns out, because _he_ thought it meant accepting each other’s apologies and then never speaking to each other again, because what would be the point?

But apparently _Bittle_ thinks it means forgiving each other and rebuilding their relationship, so, yeah. That’s what Zi—Jack is doing.

Not gonna lie, Kent is fucking mystified, but he’ll take what he can get.

 

___

 

What Kent gets is also pie in the fucking mail.

Kent and Val stare at the offending dessert on their table, the box and the—the fucking _polka-dotted_ tissue paper it came in set aside for Purrs and Kit to roll around in.

“Do you think it’s poisoned?” Val wonders.

“I don’t think so? Like, why would he?” Kent pokes cautiously at the lattice. The pie even came with a little handwritten note detailing how to reheat it or store it, signed off with a jaunty _Enjoy!_ like it was somehow completely normal to send your boyfriend’s ex a fucking cherry pie with no forewarning whatsoever.

Kent tries thinking this through for a couple more seconds, but he had a rough game tonight and he doesn’t have the brain cells necessary to figure out the angle here, so he gives up and just cuts himself a slice, popping it in the microwave.

“We _have_ a double oven, _and_ a toaster oven,” Val notes dryly.

“Yeah, but why use them when I can have hot food in less than a minute with a push of a button?” Kent shrugs, avoiding her knowing gaze as he watches the slice revolve on its little plate. He may or may not also be doing this just to spite Bittle’s instructions, but Val can’t prove that.

“Well, bon appétit,” he says when it’s done, stabbing it theatrically with a fork. 

The second the pie hits his tongue, he lets out an _obscene_ moan, like, fuck, he can hear himself and it’s completely pornographic, and also completely involuntary, like, he _cannot_ fucking help it.

“Oh, my God,” he attempts to say, but mostly it just comes out as muffled groaning.

“Oh, it can’t be _that_ good,” Val says, wrinkling her snout.

Kent would reply, but he’s too busy devouring the slice on his plate. Christ, this _cannot_ be legal—maybe Bittle _did_ drug the pie.

After finishing half the damn thing, he texts Jack.

 

 **Kent** _[7:31 p.m.]_  
what the hell, jack, do u eat like this every day?

 **Jack** _[7:34 p.m.]_  
What?

 

Kent sends a picture of the demolished pie tin.

 

 **Jack** _[7:34 p.m.]_  
Oh. Well, not every day.

 **Kent** _[7:34 p.m.]_  
jfc, Jack

 **Jack** _[7:35 p.m.]_  
What?

 **Kent** _[7:35 p.m.]_  
what?

 **Jack** _[7:35 p.m.]_  
What is jfc supposed to mean?

 

Kent stares at his phone for a second before bursting into laughter. Val looks up, curious, but he just shakes his head, waving his hand to let her know he’ll show her soon. He texts back with unsteady fingers, his shoulders still shaking from the force of his giggles.

 

 **Kent** _[7:36 p.m.]_  
omfg

 **Jack** _[7:36 p.m.]_  
?

 **Kent** _[7:36 p.m.]_  
JACK

 **Jack** _[7:37 p.m.]_  
If it meant ‘oh my fucking god,’ why didn’t you just put that?

 

Jack uses quotation marks and everything, Jesus fucking Christ. This is too funny. Kent can’t believe this, except for the fact that he totally can.

 

 **Kent** _[7:38 p.m.]_  
LMAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOO

 **Jack** _[7:38 p.m.]_  
…you don’t have that much ass.

 **Kent** _[7:38 p.m.]_  
HARSH

 **Kent** _[7:38 p.m.]_  
also jfc means jesus fucking christ, omg, get your internet slang right, you decrepit dinosaur

 **Jack** _[7:39 p.m.]_  
The proper word is ‘acronym,’ and I see you’ve been getting those Word of the Day emails again. I didn’t even know you knew the word ‘decrepit,’ let alone how to use it properly.

 

Kent texts back, still grinning.

 

 **Kent** _[7:39 p.m.]_  
well, duh, how’m i supposed to beat carrie at words with friends if i don’t keep up

 **Jack** _[7:40 p.m.]_  
I bet you cheat and get Val to do most of your turns.

 **Kent** _[7:40 p.m.]_  
fyi getting the OTHER HALF of your own SOUL to help you is NOT cheating, bro

 **Kent** _[7:40 p.m.]_  
omg wait do u play against isolde???

 **Kent** _[7:41 p.m.]_  
OMFG YOU’RE NOT REPLYING YOU DO YOU NERDDDDDDDDD

 **Jack** _[7:41 p.m.]_  
Adding more d’s to nerd doesn’t actually insult me more.

 **Kent** _[7:41 p.m.]_  
joke’s on you, it totally DOES

 **Kent** _[7:42 p.m.]_  
also I showed Val your texts

 **Kent** _[7:42 p.m.]_  
she’s laughing, too, btdubs

 **Jack** _[7:42 p.m.]_  
Why don’t you just write ‘btw’ like a normal person?

 **Kent** _[7:43 p.m.]_  
says the chump who didn’t know what jfc meant

 **Jack** _[7:47 p.m.]_  
By the way, tell Val hi. Isolde says she hopes she’s doing well.

 **Kent** _[7:47 p.m.]_  
why didn’t YOU just write btw like a normal person???? (also she says hi back, and to tell Isolde she’s good, how about her?)

 **Jack** _[7:50 p.m.]_  
Because I have proper grammar skills. Isolde says she’s doing well, as well, and she’s asking about Val’s foot. It looked like she injured it in the game today.

 **Kent** _[7:50 p.m.]_  
says the dude who starts his sentences with ‘because’

 **Jack** _[7:51 p.m.]_  
That’s an arbitrary and elitist rule.

 **Kent** _[7:51 p.m.]_  
that’s all grammar fucking is u dork

 **Kent** _[7:52 p.m.]_  
also Val’s fine, don’t worry about her, she’s a fucking rock, a Schooners daemon isn’t going to leave a dent on her, let alone Tanner’s dumbass coyote.

 **Kent** _[7:52 p.m.]_  
she weighs like 100 pounds, she’s a twig, I would worry that she’s malnourished if I didn’t know she was the physical embodiment of Tanner’s soul, in which case it’s a miracle she isn’t scrawnier, that dude has NO compassion

 **Kent** _[7:52 p.m.]_  
anyway, Val totally demolished her, no injuries whatsoever, please relay the news to Isolde

 **Kent** _[7:52 p.m.]_  
she was even swimming w/no problems in our big-ass Jacuzzi earlier, want pics?

 **Jack** _[7:53 p.m.]_  
Yes, please. Isolde worries.

 

Kent stares at his phone for a second. “Wait, what?” he says aloud, confused.

Val paws at his knee, impatient. “What did he say, Kent? Let me see,” she demands.

“Uh, Isolde wants pictures of you in our Jacuzzi?” Kent says.

Val stares at him. “Why?”

Kent scratches his nose. “Uh, Jack says she’s worried.”

“About us having a Jacuzzi?” If she had eyebrows, Kent’s dead certain she’d be raising them in pointed disbelief.

“No, about you being injured,” Kent clarifies.

Val tilts her head, obviously confused. “What? Why? You told them I was fine, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, of course I did! Izzy wants proof, though? I guess?”

Val stares at him some more. “Oh. Well. Why don’t you just take a picture of me now? Jacuzzi pics are kind of—you know. Weirdly suggestive.”

Kent snorts, but angles his phone anyway. “You’re a daemon, Val, this isn’t gonna be a sex thing.”

Val bares her teeth at him for a second before composing herself so that she looks good in the photo. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Sure, sure.” Kent dutifully sends the picture, after showing it to her for approval, of course.

 

 **Jack** _[7:56 p.m.]_  
Ah, thanks. Isolde says to tell her that she’s glad she’s not hurt.

 **Kent** _[7:56 p.m.]_  
yeah, same.

 **Kent** _[7:56 p.m.]_  
also I forgot to ask but why the fuck did your bf send me a pie???

 **Kent** _[7:56 p.m.]_  
if it was poisoned I’m going to murder you btw, that’d be low of you, getting your baker bf to take me out just so u can have the art ross, smh

 **Kent** _[7:56 p.m.]_  
u should poison me yourself. don’t delegate u coward.

 **Jack** _[7:57 p.m.]_  
He wouldn’t poison a pie.

 

Which would suggest that maybe he _would_ poison Kent. Good to know.

 

 **Jack** _[7:57 p.m.]_  
And don’t be ridiculous. Why would I poison you when the Art Ross is clearly going to be mine anyway?

 **Kent** _[7:58 p.m.]_  
haha u wish

 **Kent** _[7:58 p.m.]_  
but seriously if not poison then why?????

 **Kent** _[7:58 p.m.]_  
help a guy out here, I feel like someone is getting ready to @ me

 **Jack** _[7:59 p.m.]_  
What?

 **Jack** _[7:59 p.m.]_  
Never mind; I don’t want to know.

 **Kent** _[8:00 p.m.]_  
ooooooh and the SEMICOLON appears!!!

 **Jack** _[8:00 p.m.]_  
Shut up.

 **Kent** _[8:01 p.m.]_  
i knew it was coming!! god u always used it SO MUCH in all your damn essays

 **Kent** _[8:01 p.m.]_  
remember when bergie got caught for plagiarizing bc he just copied and pasted that one short answer thing?

 **Kent** _[8:01 p.m.]_  
what a dumbass

 **Kent** _[8:02 p.m.]_  
anyway stop distracting me and spill already

 **Kent** _[8:02 p.m.]_  
pie = murder, y/n?

 **Jack** _[8:05 p.m.]_  
You’re distracting yourself.

 **Jack** _[8:05 p.m.]_  
And there’s no particular reason; he just likes sending pie to his friends.

 

Kent stares at his phone again in incomprehension. “What the fuck?” he says, absolutely gob-smacked. “Bittle thinks we’re _friends?”_

Val looks up at him. “But we’re not,” she says bluntly.

“Yeah, I _know_ that. But apparently Bittle didn’t get the memo?”

Val wrinkles her nose. “He’s probably one of those people who have five different tiers of friends, and we’re in the lowest one.”

Kent scoffs. “You say that like _we_ don’t have seven different friend-levels.”

Val rolls her eyes. “We’re famous. We _need_ those levels to keep track of everybody. Otherwise you start obsessing over the opinions of people we don’t even like that much.”

Which, point. Kent shrugs, scratching her behind the ears. “Still doesn’t explain why we’re getting fucking pie in the mail. Shouldn’t that be a level-one friend thing?”

“Maybe it’s a one-time, welcome-to-the-friendship-circle thing,” Val speculates. “I wouldn’t put it past him and that Elle of his. They seem like the overly-polite type.”

True enough. Kent nods, satisfied by this reasoning as he types out a noncommittal reply to Jack, something along the lines of ‘tell him thanks, the pie was great, feel free to send more,’ etc., etc.

Hey, if Bittle wants to keep sending him orgasmic desserts, he’s not gonna say no.

 

___

 

This is how he starts getting regular home-baked goods in the mail, an occurrence that’s never before happened in his life. His mom’s a decent enough cook, but baking isn’t exactly her forte, and God knows every time Carrie sets foot in a kitchen she’s liable to burn it down by accident.

Actually, his dad had been the baker in the family—nothing too fancy, but he liked making everything from scratch. He used to have Kent and Carrie decorate the cupcakes, pick out the cookie cutter shapes, stuff like that. Nym would always be underfoot, keeping an eye on the preheating, grabbing the sheets from the lowest shelf, telling his dad to dust off his hands, he was getting a mess everywhere again. Kent remembered that, remembered how on Saturday mornings his dad would be covered in flour, remembered how he’d leave his fingerprints smudged on the side of his wife’s jaw, the edge of her cheekbones.

(Jack shows up on some Skype calls looking much the same, and it puts an ache in Kent’s chest, seeing those fingerprints, seeing the small smile on Jack’s face, and knowing what it all means.)

He ends up sharing some the things Bittle sends with his team, mostly because if he ate it all by himself the team’s nutritionist would murder him. Gopher ends up hounding him for the recipes, he ends up asking Jack, who tells Bittle, who DMs him on twitter with a link to a youtube video.

That’s how Kent ends up spending a weekend binge-watching six years’ worth of a baking vlog run by his ex’s boyfriend.

 

___

 

So, yeah. Jack’s boyfriend is not only super-duper cute, a good hockey player, _and_ a genuinely decent person, he’s also funny, clever, and a _phenomenal_ baker, like what the actual fuck?

Kent’s doing his best not to be that terrible ex, but it’s hard, okay?  

Most of his and Bittle’s interactions are limited to Twitter and the occasional game of telephone via text, with Jack as the middleman, but he’s starting to get a pretty good sense of the guy, the kind of humor he has, sharp-edged and witty underneath all that sweetness. Kent kinda starts enjoying their passive-aggressive conversations, the constant shade they throw at each other. He thinks if Bittle weren’t Jack’s boyfriend, maybe they’d be friends for real.

But he _is_ Jack’s boyfriend, so this is as good as it’s going to get. Kent’s just—he’s just gonna have to deal.

It’s fine. It’s what he’s always done before. He can do it again, as many times as he needs to, and he’ll be fine each time, he swears.

He swears.

 

___

 

Then the All-Star Game happens.

 

___

 

So, yeah. He goes from being jealous of Bittle for having Jack, to being jealous of Jack for having Bittle. Not that—not that Kent _wants_ Bittle, oh, God, no, that’s not even _close_ to what he’s thinking. Like, yeah, the guy’s funny, and adorable, and weirdly fucking hot, but that’s just—just Kent acknowledging _facts_. He’s not actually _into_ the guy. That would just be asking for trouble, not to mention vaguely pathetic. Who the hell develops a crush on their ex’s boyfriend? Not Kent Parson, that’s for sure.

It’s more like—like, he wishes he had a Bittle of his own, you know? Somebody to come home to after a long day. Somebody who’d go to the mat for him without question, somebody for whom he’d do the same.

Somebody who’d smile at him like he was the fucking sun coming up, without even seeming to realize they were doing it.

That’s what Jack has, and for once, Kent doesn’t want to be the one giving it to him. No, for once he just wants to have that for himself.

 

___

 

Then, two months later, he meets Lena.

 

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	11. alas, for he is lost in the woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’ll like you,” Kent promises, and she does. Carrie likes her, too, the first time that they meet, one-and-a-half months into the relationship.
> 
> As Kent watches Lena laughing with his sister, Samson and Dair trading gossip on their shoulders, he thinks to himself, _Holy fuck, you could be the one._
> 
> (The problem is, Val seems to disagree.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: There's an OFC who's basically the walking definition of 'Well-Meaning (But Still Racist/Classist/Ableist/Etc.) White Feminist,' so a bunch of microaggressions are purposefully written into this chapter.

* * *

 

**_CH. 11: alas, for he is lost in the woods_ **

 

* * *

 

 

 

He meets Lena at the gym, of all places, when he tries to beat her at endurance running and gets his ass handed to him in no time flat. She’s a Vegas stock broker, classy and smart and way too good for him, and, boy, does she  _know_  it.

Dating Lena is great, at first. He hasn’t ever had as easy a time getting to know somebody as he does her—Lena’s one of those people who doesn’t take any of his bullshit; she’s observant enough to see right past his lies, and she’s as good at manipulating people as he is, so his usual habits of deflecting or demurring never work on her. It’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

They like enough of the same t.v. shows and music and sports to never run out of things to talk about—turns out she’s just as big a fan of the Vegas Hearts as he is, even knows one of the players on the team. And the things they don’t have in common actually help bring them closer together—Lena likes teaching him about ballet, and classical music, and Renaissance art, though he draws the line at fucking opera.

“Britney is better,” he argues.

“Undoubtedly,” she says without missing a beat, which proves then and there that she’s a keeper, in his opinion, “but sometimes I need a little Vivaldi to pick me up.”

He doesn’t really get it, but she shows up to every home game he has even though she’d never watched hockey before dating him, so he guesses it’s even.

A few conversations into their relationship, they find out that they have…mutual tastes, and soon their sex life is the best Kent’s ever had, Lena domming the shit out of him on a pretty regular basis. Turns out he likes her legs even better encased in leather and five-inch, high-heeled boots, especially when she’s pinning him to the ground in them. Go figure.

She’s accepting of his hectic schedule, content to text and Skype when they’re apart, and sometimes even when he’s at home, busy with her own things and fiercely protective of her personal time. He likes how independent she is, how she loathes clinginess in nearly everybody else, but tolerates it in him. The first week she spends more nights in his bed than out of it, he can’t stop smiling for days after.

She fits in with his friends, charms them all within half an hour of meeting them. She likes showing him off to her own, possessive and proud to have him on her arm, even though any one of her friends has more degrees than half his team put together. She doesn’t treat him like he’s stupid, or uncultured, or worth any less just because he grew up in a two-bedroom apartment in New York and she grew up an only child in a six-bedroom house in the suburbs of Arizona.

She’s nervous the first time she meets his mom, pacing all through his apartment and trying a dozen different outfits on beforehand.

“Babe, I bet you weren’t even this nervous before our first official date,” he teases.

She bares her teeth at him, reminding him of Val. “You’re a moron, why would I have been nervous? Your mom’s not, though, so now I am.”

“She’ll like you,” Kent promises, and she does. Carrie likes her, too, the first time that they meet, one-and-a-half months into the relationship.

As Kent watches her laughing with his sister, Samson and Dair trading gossip on their shoulders, he thinks to himself, _Holy fuck, you could be the one._

 

___

 

The problem is, Val seems to disagree.

 

___

 

So, Kent’s aware he’s got a type, and Lena fits the bill to a fucking T. She’s tall, just an inch below him in height, actually, and she’s got dark hair, blue eyes, and a face whose default expression is halfway between ‘this is the most boring party I’ve ever been to’ and ‘I am contemplating murdering someone just to see if it would make me feel something.’

She’s also whip-smart and clever, with the kind of deadpan snark that sends people running for the hills with their tails tucked between their legs. Lena’s brand of humor tends toward scathing and just a little bit bitchy, which works out fine for Kent. It’s a good thing that she’s got a mean streak—he knows that if he runs his mouth at her, she’ll give back as good as she gets. Hurting her inadvertently isn’t something he has to worry about, not if she’s as cruel as he is. Crueler, even, with a kind of casual contempt that always gets him hot when she directs it towards him.

God, he knows it’s a little fucked up, but the way she _looks_ at him when she’s domming him—like he’s _nothing_ to her, like no matter what he does he’ll _never_ be good enough. It burns right through him, how she knows how worthless he is and decided to toy with him anyway.

Val’s fine with it in the bedroom, but she gets tetchy when Lena acts that way outside of it.

“She doesn’t mean it,” Kent soothes after a particularly bad argument, two months into the relationship, “she was just mad.”

“If she talks to you that way again, I’m going to claw her eyes out. Where the fuck does she get off, acting like therapy’s just you paying for attention? Why the fuck does she want you to justify it, huh?” Val growls.

“She doesn’t know everything we’ve been through,” Kent argues. “And, I mean, she sort of has a point—we’re a lot better off than most people, so I get why she thinks we don’t need it.”

Val just stares at him, incredulous. _“No,”_ she states firmly, and then she stalks off before Kent can add anything more.

If there was any one downhill point, Kent thinks later, that was it.

 

___

 

It’s a series of small things that get to Val, a collection of careless prejudices and—Christ, Carrie taught him the word for it, give him a second—microagressions. There. That’s what rubs Val the wrong way.

It goes like this:

They’re at the grocery store together, buying things for Swoops’ birthday party the next day.

“Oh, not this one,” he says, putting back a tray of hors d’oeuvres she picked out, “it isn’t kosher.”

She looks at him, confused. “What’s wrong with it?”

Kent frowns, equally bewildered. “Uh, it has pork salami?”

Her expression clears. “Oh, you meant literally kosher.” She looks through the selection for something else instead, Samson helping her peruse. “Are there going to be Jewish guests at the party?”

Kent stares at her. “Lena, Swoops and Mags are both Jewish.” Mags had literally been wearing a Star of David necklace when she and Lena first met, the one she always wears when she goes to a game. Not to mention Shemaiah, her heron, had a pretty Jewish name, though Swoops’ Coramaris wasn’t such a giveaway.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Lena says absentmindedly. “I wouldn’t have guessed Swoops was Jewish—though, now that I think about it, Mags does have the nose for it.”

Val and Kent both choke a little. “Uh—”

Lena waves a hand. “Relax. My great-grandma was Jewish, it’s fine.”

Kent’s pretty sure it’s not fine, and says so, but Lena just shrugs him off. He bites his tongue for the moment, reminds himself to bring it up later when they’re not out in public.

She’s perfectly lovely to Mags and Swoops at the party the next night, though, doesn’t act at all differently, so maybe Kent imagined it, or made a bigger deal out of it than it was. Yeah, probably that.

 

___

 

Lena’s a liberal feminist, thank God, believes in equality for women, supports Black Lives Matter, backs gay marriage, and thinks the debate over trans people using the right bathrooms is ridiculous.

“May every one of those backwards Southerners drop dead,” she mutters one night as they’re watching the news. “I’ve never met a single one I agreed with.”

Kent thinks of Bitty, who sent him cookies just last week, who helped him pick wine out for his and Lena’s three-month anniversary. He thinks of spending pride in New Orleans with Carrie, thinks of Chopper’s wife learning to sing gospel in Georgia, thinks of all the people he’s met in the South who have been nothing but welcoming and kind. “There’re a lot of decent ones,” he argues.

Lena shakes her head, doubtful. “In redneck country? I doubt that.”

Kent bites his lip and lets it slide.

 

___

 

“Ugh, they really need to get the homeless off the streets already. There were a couple loitering outside the gym, harassing people,” Lena says one morning, frowning at the article on her phone.

Samson nods, adding, “Vegas already has enough drug addicts to deal with. Letting them loose is dangerous for everybody.”

Kent furrows his brows. “They probably should work on the housing situation, yeah, but it’s not like every homeless person is a drug addict, and even if they were, they still deserve help,” he argues.

“No, no, of course,” Lena says. “We’re just saying that they should keep a better eye on them. It’s better for everyone in the long run.”

“Is that so,” Val says flatly, but Kent kicks her before she can say anything else.

 

___

 

“I wish more women were like your mom,” Lena says. “Working _and_ raising a family by herself? That’s incredibly admirable. So many girls just want to be stay-at-home moms, and it’s awful. They _should_ want to do more with their lives.”

Kent, Scrappy’s baby niece in his arms, freezes where he stands.

Val stares at Lena, appalled. “Kent’s mom _was_ a stay-at-home mom until his dad died.”

“Oh.” Lena frowns. “Okay, but she got her nursing degree before that, right? Taking some time off to focus on her kids temporarily was a choice she made, not something she let herself get pushed into.”

“Her husband _died_. She _had_ to work. If she never has to raise a hand to do anything else ever again, then Kent and I did our jobs right,” Val argues.

Lena rolls her eyes. “But she _doesn’t_ have to rely on you—that’s the whole point. You could rely on her, and that’s what I’m talking about. More women need to be self-sufficient. I know the systemic sexism makes it hard to do that, but women should stop blindly accepting the barefoot babymaker fantasy and expect more out of themselves.”

Scrappy comes back before either Kent or Val can formulate any kind of coherent comeback, unfortunately.

 

___

 

The second dinner with Carrie goes well right up until Lena comments on the Bi Pride pin Carrie had on her purse.

“Bro, what the fuck,” Carrie says thirty minutes and a shouting match later. Lena had gone home in a huff, and Carrie had all but shouted ‘Good riddance!’ as she walked out the door. Not the exactly the ending to the evening Kent had been hoping for.

“It sounds bad, I know,” Kent says, wincing.

“She just fucking said bisexuals are either gay people in denial or straights doing it for attention! We’re a couple miles past ‘sounds bad,’ Kent!”

“I’m really sorry,” Kent says. “She shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

“ _You’re_ not the one who needs to apologize!” Carrie yells, then gestures at Kent. “And I’m not worried about me, dude—what about _you?”_

“What about me?” Kent says, defensive, crossing his arms.

“In case you didn’t notice, idiot, your girlfriend thinks your sexuality is imaginary,” Dair chimes in, his voice dripping with sarcasm and a not-significant helping of concern.

“That’s not good—you’ve gotta break up with her, Kenny,” Carrie says urgently.

“What? No way!” Kent shakes his head. “Jesus, Carrie, she just has this radical lesbian friend—”

“She’s friends with _radfems?”_ Carrie shrieks.

“…is that a bad thing,” Kent asks, already afraid of the answer.

“Yes! Oh, my God, they don’t think trans people are trans!” Carrie says, waving her arms.

Kent relaxes. “Oh. I think this friend is a different kind. She doesn’t have beef with trans people, she just thinks bisexual people who’re dating straight people aren’t as gay as bisexuals who’re dating people of the same gender.” Honestly, the argument had made a lot of sense to Kent—did guys like him really count as queer? Sure, he still liked guys, but he was with Lena now, so he wasn’t suffering as directly from homophobia and needed less resources, right?

Right?

“Kenny,” Carrie repeats after he explains this to her, her face getting more and more horrified with every word, “please dump her. _Please.”_

Kent shakes his head, impatient. “Look, it’s just a few things. I mean, come on, _you_ haven’t dumped Tadd.”

Carrie gives him the stink-eye. “His name is _Ted_ , and at least he’s not biphobic!”

Kent rolls his eyes. “The fucker asked you for a threesome right after you told him, he’s not exactly the poster-child for bisexual acceptance.”

“Well, we’re not discussing my love life, we’re discussing yours! _I’m_ not gonna marry Ted, but you—you’ve already introduced Lena to Ma! That’s _serious_ , Kenny!”

“And so what?” Kent says, belligerent. “I like her! I’m not breaking up with her!”

“Kenny,” Carrie says, reaching for his hand, “Kenny, _please._ ”

Kent shakes his head. “No,” he says, and that’s that.

 

___

 

Introducing Lena to Jack goes better, at least. Kent takes her as his plus-one to the NHL Awards ceremony, and she and Samson charm the hell out of everybody there, including Jack.

“You look happy,” Jack tells him when they have a moment to themselves, and Kent flashes back to the All-Star Game, telling Bitty something similar.

“Yeah,” Kent answers, ignoring the ache in his chest, “I am.”  

Jack nods, still looking at Lena, his eyes considering. “I’m glad,” he says, sincere.

“Thanks,” Kent says. He clears his throat. “How’s Bitty?” he asks, and pretends his heart isn’t squeezing tight when Jack’s face immediately brightens. There’s no reason to be jealous, and even if he was, who would he be jealous of? It’s pointless. It’s nothing.

(At their feet, Val looks away from Isolde’s searching gaze.)

 

___

 

Kent just…really doesn’t know what to say sometimes.

“Should I even say anything?” he asks Val. “I mean, I’m a straight-passing, able-bodied, wealthy white dude, I really don’t have any cause to be mansplaining.”

Val bares her teeth. “Mansplaining is when you lecture a woman on something she already understands. From what I can tell, Lena and Samson are the very definition of white liberal feminism, and still need a few things explained to them. If you want me to do the explaining, I, as a queer, female, mentally ill daemon, am happy to volunteer.”

Kent shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.” He catches Val’s expression. “Really, though! It’s fine.”

“We’re supposed to like a person _more_ the more we know about them,” Val says softly.

Kent squeezes his eyes shut. “Val.”

“I know,” Val says, sounding tired. “It’s just one or two things. I get that. But that’s honestly what makes it so frustrating, because she’s _so close_ to being so awesome, and it’s just—why doesn’t she want to listen when somebody points out what she’s doing wrong, huh?”

“ _Nobody_ likes being told that, Val,” Kent says, exasperated. “You could say the same thing about me.”

“But you learn from your mistakes! She doesn’t even fucking acknowledge she makes them!” 

“It’s fine,” Kent repeats, stubborn to the last. “It’s fine.”

Val sighs.

 

___

 

Val won’t let Lena touch her—hasn’t let anybody touch her since Jack. And Kent gets it, gets why it’d take a lot for her to let somebody that close again.

Lena—well, she says she gets it, too, but Kent can tell it upsets her, the way it upset all of his other partners up ‘til now.

“Sorry,” Val tells him, miserable. She thinks it’s her fault, thinks she’s broken somehow, which is just bullshit.

“Don’t be,” Kent tells her. “When you know it’s right, it’ll be right.”

He remembers the way it felt to have Jack touch her—reverent and adoring, his fingers trembling—and he knows he still wants nothing less than that for Val.

They can wait.

 

___

 

Or not, as it turns out.

Lena breaks up with him at his own fucking birthday party, and Bitty of all people is there to witness his humiliation, then adds insult to injury by comforting him afterward.

“Can’t they cut us a break,” Val moans the next day, after they’ve waved him and Jack goodbye. “They’re already so damn cute. Do they have to be this nice, too?”

Kent doesn’t say anything, too busy listlessly poking at his spaghetti.

Val stops and looks at him. “Kent,” she says gently, “she wasn’t the one.”

“I know,” he says. The way she’d talked to Val had made that _abundantly_ clear. “But I—” Fuck, he’s crying again. Shit. “Are we ever going to find somebody?” he asks, feeling hopeless. “Jack managed to move the fuck on with a great fucking person—where’s _our_ soulmate, huh?”

“They’re out there,” Val murmurs, butting her head against his knee. “We just—we’ve gotta be patient. We’ll find them.”

Kent sighs. “I wish we had them _now.”_

Val rumbles in commiseration.

 

___

 

The breakup doesn’t hit Kent as hard as it might’ve—he’d seen the writing on the wall, he just hadn’t wanted to read it. Most of his relationship with Lena involved ignoring everything that was wrong with it, so in hindsight he can admit Carrie and Val were right and he should’ve dumped her sooner.

Still, it _hurts_ , and he spends the next two weeks moping about the house, Val completely unsympathetic to his plight.

Then he gets a call from Bitty.

“Hey,” he says, surprised. “What’s up?”

“Hi,” Bitty says, sounding nervous, then hesitates.

Kent frowns immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Wha—nothing’s wrong! Everything’s fine!” Bitty says, affronted, and _that_ sounds more like him.

Kent smiles, relieved. “If you say so—but, dude, you never open up with just ‘hi.’ Usually you’ve already followed it up with half a story about your coworkers, or your old teammates, or the latest dog Jack’s fallen in love with.”

“…okay, I concede you may have a point, but I could’ve just been polite and waiting for _you_ to say something!”

“Were you?”

“…no.”

“Ha! Knew it,” Kent says, smirking as Val walks pads into the room. _It’s Bitty_ , he tells her.

She perks up. “Oh? Tell Elle I say hi.”

“Val says hi,” Kent says at the same time Bitty starts, “Well, I was just wondering—”

They both stop.

“Oh! Elle says hi, too, of course,” Bitty says, while Kent goes, “Wait, sorry, could you say that again?”

Bitty laughs, that edge of nervousness in his voice again. “Sorry, sorry, I’m bungling this whole thing up.” He sighs. “I was just wondering—maybe you and Val might want to come out and visit us for a few weeks, if you don’t have plans?”

Kent blinks. “Uh, what?”

“Well, it’s just—off-season’s hardly any time at all, you know, and—well, Elle and I hardly got to see you at your party—not that that was your fault, of course! That’s not what I’m saying! It’s just—I dunno, we just missed you and thought it’d be a good idea,” Bitty babbles.

 _We just missed you_. Kent’s heart squeezes in his chest. “Sure, yeah,” he finds himself saying. “When do you want me there?”

Silence for a beat, and then Bitty’s voice brightens as he starts talking about potential dates, and flights, and the things he wants Kent and Val to try while they’re there—

Kent closes his eyes and lets his voice wash over him, holding onto the little bit of warmth he lends him.

They settle on a date.

“I’ll be there,” Kent promises.

 

___

 

And he is.

 

___ 


	12. jealousy, a beast within him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right after he graduates, sometimes Jack wakes up and wonders how the hell his life ever got so good.
> 
> He and Isolde are in the NHL, playing on a great team that doesn’t ask them to be anything other than what they are. He has a funny, loyal, wonderful group of friends—yes, _friends,_ as in plural, thank you very much, Shitty—he has a college degree, he has hobbies outside of hockey, and, best of all, he has the most amazing boyfriend anyone could ask for.
> 
> (He’s grateful for it, for a second chance he’s not entirely sure he deserves.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Non-explicit description of a BDSM relationship.

* * *

 

**_CH. 12: jealousy, a beast within him_ **

 

* * *

 

 

  

Right after he graduates, sometimes Jack wakes up and wonders how the hell his life ever got so good.

He and Isolde are in the NHL, playing on a great team that doesn’t ask them to be anything other than what they are. He has a funny, loyal, wonderful group of friends—yes, _friends,_ as in plural, thank you very much, Shitty—he has a college degree, he has hobbies outside of hockey, and, best of all, he has the most amazing boyfriend anyone could ask for.

It’s a lot more than he thought he’d ever have, back when he was at his lowest point, right after he’d nearly killed himself and almost severed the connection between himself and Isolde entirely.

He’s grateful for it, for a second chance he’s not entirely sure he deserves.

 

___

 

They win the Stanley Cup.

When he lifts it high above his head, his hands are shaking, he’s full of so much joy.

“We did it,” Isolde is chanting in his ear, her badger’s body steady on his shoulders, now a familiar, beloved weight, her shape something they’ve both made peace with. “We did it, we did it!”

This is everything he ever wanted.

 

___

 

(That’s a lie—it’s _half_ of everything he ever wanted.

 _I did it,_ Isolde will say later in the privacy of their own mind, half-asleep and drunk on victory. _I did it, I kept my promise, did you see that, sweetheart? I kept my promise, I_ did _—_

Jack will pull her close and pretend he doesn’t know who she’s talking to.)

 

___

 

It takes two long years for Isolde to let Bitty touch her, and it’s not for lack of trying on Jack’s part.

“Sweetheart,” he pleads, “why won’t you let him? He’s not going to hurt you.”

“I _know_ that,” Isolde snarls back, frustrated. “I just—I can’t!”

Jack thins his lips. “Is this about Kent?” he says, lowering his voice, which is ridiculous, considering Bitty’s miles away at Samwell and there’s no one here in his apartment to hear them. But it’s become force of habit now, to muffle what he’s saying when he’s talking about Kent.

Isolde looks up at him, betrayed. “Don’t talk about him,” she says. “You don’t—I gave them up for you, you don’t get to talk about them—”

“Isolde,” Jack starts, apologetic, but she’s already out the door, the cord between them spooling thin, and Jack wonders what it says about him that sometimes his soul can’t stand to be in the same room with him.

 

___

 

Isolde’s shape fits her like a glove: badgers are somewhat solitary, gentle except when provoked, vicious when threatened, resourceful, smart, and known as a symbol of loyalty.

“You’re a Hufflepuff, brah,” Shitty’d told him the day they met. “Automatically makes you a chill dude.”

Jack’s not sure about that, but he knows Isolde is steadfast to her bones. She won’t leave you once she loves you—she’s never left Jack, after all, even though she could if she wanted to.

(It’s why she always had to ask Val to leave, instead.)

 

___

 

The days Jack looks down and expects to see Isolde in wolf-form are long behind him—he knows the shape of her now the way he knows the grip of his hockey stick in his hand, the exact tightness of his skates laced onto his feet.

He’s learning Bitty in much the same way, through dedication and practice. He’s learning his habits and quirks, his small joys, his quiet secrets—the things that make him laugh, the things that make him frown. Jack thinks he could spend the rest of his life learning them all and be content. A new feeling for him, since contentment always seemed a myth to him, and the closest thing he could imagine was resignation.

Resignation is something he still knows now, when he runs a hand through Elle’s sleek, russet-red fur and something in him startles, expecting it to be rough and golden.

 

___

 

Jack’s never attempted to try and contact Kent, even after he joins the NHL and has to play against him at least twice a year.

See, Jack understood the concept of sacrifice far better than he ever understood mercy—to get things, you have to give things up. That’s how it works.

For hockey, he gave up time spent on anything else, the space to be a person other than a player, and even—for a time—his sanity.

For his life now, he has to give up the life he had then—he trades the Q for Samwell, Rimouski for the SMH, Val for Elle, Kent for Bitty. It’s a trade he’d make again, considering how well it went for everyone involved.

Yes, it’s true that he misses Kent like an ache sometimes. He can admit that.

He can also admit that they’re better off not speaking.

 _What can we give them?_ Isolde asks him once, staring at Val across the ice. _What can we give them besides a broken promise?_

There’s nothing to sacrifice, so there’s nothing to gain.

 

___

 

It’s Bitty who teaches him the concept of mercy, of absolution—of forgiveness being granted without having to earn it, without there being a price to pay.

It takes two long years for Bitty to touch Isolde, yet never once did he act disappointed at the wait. Never once did he make Jack feel like he was the one at fault—even though he _was_ at fault. Even though there was an imbalance, Bitty giving too much and Jack taking without offering anything in return.

“It’s not like that, sweetheart,” Bitty says patiently, tenderly. “You don’t owe me anything, and Isolde owes me even less. I can wait. There’s no hurry.”

“And if she never lets you?” Jack asks, feeling keenly that imbalance, that lack.

“Then she never lets me,” Bitty replies, unperturbed. “Elle and I won’t stop loving her because of a little thing like that.”

There’s nobody Jack would trust more with his skittish, wary soul—with his beloved Isolde, who’s so cautious with her heart because when she loves, she loves with all she has, and she never stops.

When Isolde finally lets Bitty place his hands on her—gentle, worshipful, as if he’s touching the most precious thing in the world—Jack can’t help but think it feels almost like redemption.

 

___

 

It’s not all sweetness and gentleness, of course—there’s passion, too. Bitty’s soul didn’t settle as something tame, and there’s a wildness to him, too. A sharpness. A _bite_.

Bitty doesn’t leave hickeys so much as he leaves bruises, raises raw, red scratches, nudges and nips and directs until he has Jack right where he wants him. He’s always kind about it, but also decidedly _firm._ Bitty phrases his directions like suggestions, littering his sentences with ‘please,’ and ‘honey,’ and ‘sweetheart,’ and ‘you know, I’d like it if you would—’

But at the end of it, he expects Jack to obey.

It’s new territory for Jack, who’s always leaned more into the dominant role whenever he _did_ indulge in playing with someone. He likes being in control, likes taking care of someone, likes calling the shots—he’s known that since he was a fumbling teenager, fooling around with Kent. He’s learned a few things since then, and he hadn’t been averse to teaching Bitty once they’d gotten together.

To be honest, he _had_ assumed Bitty would be more of a submissive, all wide-eyed innocence, sweet and giving and pliant. But Bitty’s got that tart edge underneath all that sweetness, has himself a razor tongue, a spine of steel, and he won’t give an inch if he doesn’t want to, is frankly more likely to take a mile from Jack instead.

And Jack?

Well. To his surprise, he doesn’t mind giving up control, not if it’s to Bitty. They find a rhythm that works for them, a give and take in their bedroom, same as their relationship anywhere else.

So Bitty wears blindfolds, and Jack gets handcuffed, and Elle leaves teeth-marks on Isolde, and Isolde isn’t shy about using her claws, and life is very, very good for all four of them.

 

___    

 

And then Bitty asks him to talk to Kent Parson.

 

___

 

“What?” Jack asks blankly.

“Just talk with him,” Bitty pleads. “Not even anything more than that. Just—reach out. Ask him how he’s doing. Something like that.”

“But why?” Jack asks, frustrated. “It’s in the past.”

Bitty slides his gaze over to the living room, where Isolde is happily singing along to the radio. “You know that’s not true,” Bitty says quietly. “You know Isolde still misses Val.”

And Jack—how can Jack argue with that?

 

___

 

It takes almost all the courage he has to call Kent again, and he nearly gives up after Kent hangs up on him. Jack doesn’t blame him; he’d hang up on himself, too, if their positions were reversed.

But for Isolde—

Well, she gave up the love of her life for Jack. The least he could do is get her some closure, some peace.

He logs into his old Skype account and tries again.

 

___

 

Miracle of miracles, Kent meets him halfway.

 

___

 

Rebuilding his friendship with Kent is a study in contradictions: both the easiest thing in the world to do, and the hardest. As easy as skating laps around the rink, and as hard as playing a shift when you’re down two and it’s the third quarter.

Like hockey, basically, and isn’t that Kent in one word?

He’s hockey to Jack—always has been, always will be. Even if other things and other people get added onto that definition, for Jack the first word in the book will always be Kent’s name.

 

___

 

One day, Jack gets home to find Bitty singing in the kitchen, Elle dancing her way around the island, and a pie cooling on the rack.

“Looks good, bud,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of his boyfriend’s head. “Is that cherry?”

Bitty beams up at him. “Hi, honey! Welcome home—and, oh! Yes, it is! Don’t worry, though, I’ve got an apple in the oven for you.”

“Is the cherry one for someone else?” Jack says, tilting his head, curious.

“Yeah, I’m mailing it to Kent Parson tomorrow,” Bitty answers, casually heedless of the bombshell he just dropped.

Jack and Isolde freeze, but when they turn to look at Bitty, he’s gone back to prepping dinner.

 _Are…are they friends now?_ Isolde sends to him, her confusion readily evident.

_I…suppose so._

_Hm. Must be, if Bitty’s sending pie._ Isolde pauses. _It’s cherry, too,_ she points out, a careful aside.

What she means is that it’s Kent’s favorite, and Jack would bet every last dollar he had that Bitty knew it.

 _That’s—_ Jack searches for an appropriate word and comes up blank. _—good,_ he eventually settles on.

Isolde wags her tail. _Yeah,_ she says, sounding pleased. _It’s good that they’re friends._

Jack nods, and doesn’t say anything more.

 

___

 

If you’d told him at twenty that one day he’d be amicable exes with Kent Parson, Jack Zimmermann would have laughed in your face.

As it is, he can only stare in amused surprise as Kent sends him text after text of complaints about his teammates crashing at his apartment and eating all of Bitty’s cookies.

 _I was saving those_ , he laments.

 _You should have eaten them when you got them_ , Jack sends back.

 _Bro, he sent, like, fifty, there’s no way I could’ve eaten them all in three days without our nutritionist neutering me_ , Kent replies, and Jack ends up laughing out loud.

“What’s so funny?” Bitty says, looking up from his phone, Elle curled comfortably in his lap, Isolde by his side.

“Parse’s stash of your cookies got found by his teammates,” Jack explains.

Bitty makes a face. “Oh, poor thing. Tell him I’ll send him some more the week after next.”

Jack dutifully types the message out. Such is his life: go-between his ex and his boyfriend.

 

___

 

The next time Providence plays in Vegas, Jack stays over at Kent’s apartment for the day.

It fits Kent: all wide, open spaces, floor-to-ceiling windows, magnificent views.

“You are such a cat,” Jack says fondly.

“Oh, like you’re not?” Kent snorts, leaning against the couch, a conspicuous ten feet of space between him and Jack. He’s been keeping his distance, respecting Jack’s boundaries, and Jack appreciates it.

(Val does the same with Isolde, and Isolde—

Well, she knows intellectually that it’s for the best, but Jack can still feel the longing radiating from her, forlorn as a dimming star.)

Jack clears his throat. “I’m a dog person,” he replies.

“No, you _like_ dogs better, but you _are_ a cat,” Kent corrects, and the next few minutes are spent bickering about the categories people fall into, Val and Isolde acting as referees, as Kent and Jack slowly, slowly let their walls down, meeting in the middle.

It’s good, Jack thinks. It’s good.

 

___

 

Jack knows there isn’t any reason to be jealous over Kent—what possible reason could he lay claim to that wouldn’t be the height of hubris and selfishness?

Still, there’s an ache in his heart to see the way Kent throws himself unreservedly at his teammates, greeting them with full-body tackle-hugs, letting them rest their arms across his shoulders, constantly peppering their conversations with fist-bumps, high-fives, shoulder nudges, the thousand and one ways he expresses his affection through his body language, open and carefree and happy.

And Val—Val is equally physical, winding herself around their team’s daemons, nuzzling their fur, batting a paw affectionately at their heads, curling protectively around them when they sit down for a moment.

It’s not that they’re not physically affectionate with Jack and Isolde, either—Kent still pulls him in for shoulder-bumps and a slap to his back whenever they see each other again, that wide, familiar grin plastered over his face. Val still brushes her nose gently over Isolde’s, a feather-light touch.

But gone is the easy, constant contact. Gone is the comforting weight of Kent’s body by Jack’s side, the whisper of Val’s tail against Isolde’s. There’s always that sense of distance, small but pointedly there—the separation between the people on Kent’s team, and the people who aren’t.

The people who are a part of his family, and the people who are not.

Jack and Isolde have spent so much of their lives convinced that Kent and Val would always consider them a part of the former that it’s a shock to find that they now fall into the latter.

Jack doesn’t blame them, though—he knows it’s his own problem, not theirs, and he doesn’t begrudge them this. He’s happy that they’re even friends at all, to be honest. He was certain for the longest time that they’d never get this back. He can process his feelings like a fucking adult and accept that what they have now is far better than anything they had then.

And still— _still_ , something in him goes cold to hear Val say, with every apparent hint of warmth, “Isolde.”

And Jack knows— _Izzy_ ’s been long, long gone, _Izzy_ ’s another life entirely, _Izzy_ is a ghost that needed to be put to rest—

—but Val says, “Isolde,” and the word is less like a nail in the coffin than it is a handful of earth thrown over the grave, falling dark and soft as rain from hands held loosely open:

A release. An absolution. A goodbye.

Through their bond, Jack feels Isolde fight the urge to keen at the loss, yet another thing he’s stolen from her.

 

___

 

“Jack,” Kent says, that familiar smile taking over his face, every bit the boy Jack knew, just with his wildness carefully tucked away. Just with his edges sanded over, his brightness dampened, his joy leashed—but only when Jack is there. Only when he gets too close.

“Jack,” Kent says, and his voice sounds like fingertips brushing over the name on the headstone, and lingering on the date of death.

 _Zimms!_ shouts the boy in Jack’s memories, exuberant, unrestrained, and Jack knows he isn’t ever coming back.

 

___

 

Except he does come back.

At the All-Star Game, Jack and Kent are on the same team. It’s like magic—they’re Zimms&Parse, Parse&Zimms again, and it’s like they never left.

“Val!” Isolde yells, bounding to her for a celly. “Val! Val!”

“Izzy!” she shouts back, and maybe it’s Isolde’s heart that leaps. Maybe it’s Jack’s. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

 

___

 

Then Parse gets a girlfriend.

Isolde barely talks for three weeks straight.

 

___

 

When Parse breaks up with his girlfriend, Jack has to pretend Isolde isn’t elated, isn’t seconds away from spilling her heart at Val’s feet, even though Elle is right next to them.

 _Isolde,_ he says warningly.

 _I know,_ she sends back, but she doesn’t stop staring.

Jack looks down and keeps his own eyes firmly on his plate.

 

___

 

“Honey?”

“Mm?” Jack looks up to find Bitty looking at him anxiously.

“Um—I was wondering—” Bitty wrings his hands, Elle wagging her tail back and forth as she stands beside him.

Jack frowns. “Bits?”

“—you know, it’s like I told you—I feel so bad for eavesdropping on Parse at his party, and it was just plain _awful_ what he went through, and—and I’ve been keeping up on his twitter, and he’s—well. He isn’t taking the break up well _at all_ , and I was thinking, well, we’ve got plenty of room, too, and we barely see each other when the season starts, so why not ask if he wants to come over?” he finishes all in a rush.

Jack blinks. “Uh.”

“Just for a week or two! Not long at all!”

“Bits—” 

“I’m sure he’s got other things to do, too! But if you were okay with it, I thought why not!”

“Bits—”

“Really, I just feel so sorry for him, that’s it, I swear—”   

“Bitty,” Isolde says, coming to nudge his hand, and his mouth clicks shut. “We’re fine,” she says patiently. “We’d love to have him and Val over.”

Bitty’s mouth drops open. _“Really?”_ he asks, eyes starting to shine.

“Really,” Isolde affirms, grinning up at him.

And that’s how Kent Parson comes and stays with them for two weeks.

 

___

 

Parse and Val arrive in mid-July, both of them gilded gold from the summer sun, matching grins on both their faces.

 _Val!_ Isolde thinks, happiness moving through her like a cresting wave. She’d run to her if she could, if it wouldn’t give her feelings away, here in the airport where only lovers and family throw themselves at each other with such abandon.

“Hey,” Parse calls out, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head.

“Hey, yourself,” Bitty answers, drawing his attention, and Jack’s glad of it, since the look on Isolde’s face when she caught sight of Val would’ve been a dead give-away of her feelings. It’s the same way she looks at Elle, after all.

 

___

 

They put Parse up in the spare bedroom Bitty used to pretend to sleep in when he came over.

“Oh, hey,” Parse says, throwing himself right on the bed when he walks in, “I _knew_ I should’ve brought my own sheets. Couldn’t spring for the thousand thread-count ones, huh?”

Jack blinks, taken aback, but Parse isn’t even looking at him—instead he’s looking at Bitty, already grinning in anticipation of his reaction.

Bits doesn’t disappoint. He puts his hands on his hips and glares. “Excuse _me_ , Kent Parson, but you had better _not_ be implying that I’m a bad host—”

Kent interrupts him by snorting, the sound echoed by Val, who stretches leisurely at Kent’s feet. “I’m not implying it, Bittle, I’m flat-out stating it.”

Bitty gasps in outrage. “Oh, you did _not_ just say that! You take that back!”

“Hey, I’m just saying that of the three people in this room, only one of them made sure his guests had luxury cotton bedding, and that one isn’t you.” 

“These sheets are perfectly serviceable—”

“Oh, _serviceable_ is what we’re going for now, I see how it is—”

“Oh, you insufferable man!”

The two of them keep on bickering, but Jack doesn’t pay attention to the rest of their conversation, distracted as he is by the look on Kent’s face.

He looks warm, open, and teasing—happy without even trying to be, and suddenly Jack’s breath is catching in his throat, because he’s seen that look before:

It’s the way Kent used to look at _him,_ once upon a time.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, shocked.

(Isolde doesn’t answer, too busy watching Val look at Elle the same way, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

 _Oh,_ she thinks, desolate. _So that’s how it is._ )

 

___

 

Jack is expecting the visit to be hard for himself. He thinks of it like a test—a test of his self-control, his patience, his ability not to backslide and give in to his temper and jealousy, and hurt the people he loves.

He’s not expecting Parse to arrive and, instead of Jack being jealous of Parse for being the walking embodiment of everything he failed to be, ending up feeling envious not because of hockey at all—

—but because Parse takes one look at Bitty and falls head over heels in love.

 

___

 

Oh, it’s not _obvious_ _,_ of course. There aren’t any shouted declarations or anguished confessions of love, no dramatic rain-soaked scenes straight out of a rom-com. This is Parse, after all. Parse, who plays things close to the chest. Parse, who has a hundred masks for a thousand occasions, all of them good enough to pass as real, unless you get too close.

Unless you know him well enough.

Too bad for him, because if Jack Zimmermann knows anything or anyone, he knows Kent Parson.

No, it’s not obvious if you’re not looking for it, but it _is_ there. It’s in the way he teases Bitty, the little things he does for him—pulling down casserole dishes from the top shelves, even if he chirps him about his height first. Always letting him choose the channel, even if he makes fun of his taste in cooking shows. Making coffee in the mornings, buying the over-budget cocoa beans at the farmer’s market, never saying a word of complaint when Elle gets fur all over his thousand-dollar shoes, even though he left them neatly piled in the foyer.

“Elle!” Bitty scolds when he catches her making off with one.

“But it’s leather!” Elle says, defensive, teeth clenched tight around the laces.

“It’s Gucci, for God’s sake, not a chew toy!”

Elle makes a face. “Gucci can suck my dick.”

Val breaks into loud, raspy cackles, and Parse grins at Bitty, waving off his concerns. “It’s fine, bro,” he says, tossing the second shoe to Elle. “It’s no big deal.”

Jack watches Bitty squint at him, unconvinced. “Are you sure? They look awfully expensive.”

Parse shrugs magnanimously. “Eh, I can always buy another pair.”

“Oh, my God,” Elle says. “Absolutely no more ‘eh’s’! This is an ‘eh’-free zone!”

“Eh?” Val says, grinning, her tail swishing back forth. “What are you gonna do about it, eh?”

What Elle does is yip and dive-bomb right at her, heedless of Val’s greater size. Isolde watches them from the sidelines, but she doesn’t dive in, even when the fight is finished, and Val stays close to Elle.

That’s the other thing that gives them away: the touching. Parse is always orbiting Bitty, taking any excuse to catch him by the elbow, nudge him with his shoulder, poke him in the side, or drape an arm around his shoulder. And to cement Jack’s suspicions, Val is even worse with Elle: always bopping her playfully with her paws, leaning into her when they’re sitting, and following patiently at her heels all around the apartment.

It’s such a contrast to the way she is with Isolde, who gets nothing but reserved affection, a carefully maintained distance, and fleeting touches that are both too much and too little all at once. Whenever they _do_ touch, it’s always Isolde who initiates it, and always Val who pulls away first.

Jack watches Isolde watching Val watching Elle, her eyes dark and covetous, and wonders who it is she’s more jealous of—

—Val, for wanting Elle? Or Elle, because she’s the one Val wants?

(Who is it that _Jack’s_ jealous over? Bitty or Parse?

He doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know, and decides to not even think about it.)

 

___

 

“Sometimes I think I’m bad for you.”

Jack freezes, looking up to find Isolde staring at the rain falling steadily outside, curled up on the window-seat like she didn’t say a word. It’s just them in the apartment, Bitty and Elle at work, and Parse and Val gone for the day to visit Carrie in Boston.

“What makes you say that?” Jack says, careful to keep his voice neutral. The rain always makes them maudlin—the gray skies, the muffled hum of thunder, the strange pressure in the air—all of it saps their energy, makes them lost in their own heads. It could be just that.

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” Isolde asks, and Jack can tell she’s continuing the conversation, even if he doesn’t know where she’s taking it. “With where we are now?”

Jack hesitates. Then, “Yes.”

Isolde nods. “I’m glad. I never thought we’d make it here,” she says matter-of-factly. “We graduated college. We’re in the NHL. You have a wonderful boyfriend, and I’m madly in love with his daemon. And somehow we’re doing all of this without popping pills every ten minutes. We even only have panic attacks every three months or so, and they don’t last longer than an hour, tops. You’re happy, mostly. This is all I ever thought I wanted, so how come it isn’t enough?”

Jack goes and sits next to her, placing a hand on her back. She turns to face him, burying her face against his stomach.

“I miss her all the time,” she confesses, and Jack doesn’t have to ask who she’s talking about. “I don’t understand. You’ve gotten over him, you’ve fallen in love with someone else, and I swear to God that I have, too, but—” She sighs, her ears drooping.

 _But_. Jack doesn’t say anything, just rubs her back more firmly.

“I still miss her. Even though we’re friends again, even though she’s _right here—_ I look at her, and I miss her. I think I’m going to miss her my whole life. And I don’t know—is it because we almost died? We can go miles without having to be near each other now—maybe it isn’t limited to physical distance. Maybe emotional distance counts, too, because I don’t know why you moved on and I stayed stuck in place. Why do I still _feel_ so much for her?” she asks, anguished. “Did you know Bitty and Elle started being friends with them for my sake? Elle told me. It was so they could ask her if she would be open to sharing me with them.”

Jack sucks in a startled breath. “That can’t be true—”

“I wish they hadn’t,” Isolde continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I wish they’d never even tried, if it was just going to end up like this. Do you know how it kills me to watch them together? To see the way she looks at Elle?”

“Isolde—” 

“She used to look that way at _me_ ,” Isolde says, keening. “At _me_ _,_ Jack. Even when I settled as this stumpy, ugly form, she looked at me like I was the sun coming up, she looked at me like—like—”

“Like you were every wonder in the world,” Jack finishes, his heart heavy. “I know, sweetheart. I remember.”

“It’s so stupid of me. I don’t even know why I feel this way— _God,_ it’s not as if I don’t understand why she’d love Elle. _I_ love Elle with everything I have. It’s just that I—” She cuts herself off, sighing, heavy and heartbroken.

“You love Val, too,” Jack says.

Isolde doesn’t say anything, but, then again, she doesn’t have to. Jack knows.

 

___

 

 _(I wish I could stop,_ Isolde says eventually, in the quiet dark of their own shared thoughts.

 _I know, sweetheart,_ Jack says. _I know._

He doesn’t say how he wishes he could do the same; he doesn’t have to. Isolde already knows.)

 

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and/or comments, if you'd like! ^^


	13. her love is red in tooth and claw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plan Seduce Val and Kent on Isolde’s Behalf is going fantastically well, if Bitty and Elle do say so themselves.
> 
> There’s just one problem:
> 
> Somehow, someway, Elle and Bitty have gone several miles past ‘begrudgingly accepting’ to ‘oh, shit, I think we’re in love with them.’
> 
> So, yeah. They’ve basically gone and screwed themselves over, is what Bitty’s saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Accidental daemon touching, D/s dynamics, and so much smut.

* * *

 

_**CH. 13: her love is red in tooth and claw** _

 

* * *

 

 

 

Plan Seduce Val and Kent on Isolde’s Behalf is going fantastically well, if Bitty and Elle do say so themselves. Kent and Val are here, and they’re looking good, looking happy, Isolde cozying up to Val all the time, and Jack and Kent slipping into their old camaraderie like they never left it behind them. Bitty and Elle couldn’t have imagined anything better, especially when they inform Isolde of the plan and it turns out she’s cautiously onboard with it.

There’s just one problem:

In the course of wooing Val and Kent, and acclimating themselves to their presence so as not to spontaneously combust from jealousy and ruin the whole thing from the start, they _may_ have gotten a little _too_ friendly. As in, somehow, someway, Elle and Bitty have gone several miles past ‘begrudgingly accepting’ to ‘oh, shit, I think we’re in love with them.’

So, yeah. They’ve basically gone and screwed themselves over, is what Bitty’s saying.

 

___

 

Bitty realizes it halfway through the fourth day Kent and Val stay over. Jack is reading, Bitty is assembling some sandwiches for lunch, and Kent is making an absolute _nuisance_ of himself—

—and then Elle wanders over and, seeing Isolde comfortably snuggled against Val, goes to Val’s other side and snuggles her, too.

Bitty stiffens a bit, the touch going through him like a wave of warmth, but neither Jack nor Kent react, so he figures he must be imagining things, or making a big deal out of nothing, except—

Except Elle _keeps_ doing it.

 

___

 

“Alright, what is _up_ with you?” Bitty hisses at his daemon. Jack and Kent are at the gym, working out, so they finally have the apartment to themselves, leaving Bitty feeling secure enough to confront his daemon.

Elle looks up at him, snout wrinkled in confusion. “Huh?” 

Bitty scoffs. “Don’t play innocent with me, missy—what is the matter? You keep on—on _cuddling_ with Val.”

“Wha—I’m not _cuddling_ with her,” Elle says. “We’re just hanging out!”

Bitty has several photos on his iPhone that say otherwise. He’s in the process of bringing them out and showing them to her when her emotions register with him:

“Oh, my God,” he says, horrified. “You’re serious. You don’t—you don’t even notice yourself doing it, do you?”

“Notice what?” she snaps testily.

Oh, no. This is bad. This is very, very bad. The last time Elle did this was with Isolde, and look how _that_ turned out.

“Elle,” Bitty says carefully, “when you’re hanging out with Val, how much of her are you usually touching?”

Elle rolls her eyes. “The normal amount, Bitty. It’s the same amount I touch Nerysta or Xú Feng.”

Bitty sighs and shows her the picture Kent had sent to him, one of when he’d taken a nap yesterday, causing Elle to sleep, too. Except instead of sleeping by Bitty, or going to lie down at Jack’s feet or Isolde’s side, Elle went and fell asleep _on top of Val._

“Oh,” Elle says, looking at the picture with wide eyes. “That looks—okay, that can be taken the wrong way, I understand, but it’s really not my fault? She’s just—very comfy.”

‘She’s just very comfy’ is word for word what Elle used to say about Isolde when she was in denial about her. Bitty can see the moment Elle realizes the parallel because she goes stock-still, and a bolt of terror shoots through them both.

“No,” Elle says.

“Yes,” Bitty replies grimly.

“No!”

“You _like_ her,” he insists.

“I don’t!” Elle protests, waving her tail frantically. “I just think she’s really nice to nap on!”

Bitty waves his arms, equally frantic. “That means you like her!”

“It does not!”

“Does, too!”

“Does _not!”_

 

___

 

Ten minutes and a shouting match later, Bitty and Elle are lying face-down on the living room floor.

“Just shoot me now,” Elle mutters. “Put me out of my misery. It’ll be less messy than telling Isolde I’m in love with her ex-girlfriend, who, by the way, she’s _also still in love with.”_

“Mm.”

“No, seriously, what on God’s green earth am I supposed to tell her? ‘I got so into seducing her on your behalf that now I want her, too’? Like _that’s_ going to go over well.”

“Mm.”

“And this is _Val_ we’re talking about! NHL star Val! On the cover of Sports Illustrated Val! Famous the world over Val! _That_ Val! She’s an honest-to-God _lioness_. I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting her to like me back.”

“Mm.”

“I hate you so much right now, by the way. At least _you’re_ not in love with Kent, so you don’t have to make things awkward with Jack at all.”

Bitty laughs nervously. “That’s true,” he agrees, “I’m not in love with him.”

Elle perks an ear and rolls over to look at him. Her eyes go wide.

“What?” Bitty demands.

“I do _not_ believe this,” she says, batting her paw against his shoulder. “You _like_ him.”

Bitty’s mouth drops open. “What? No, I don’t! _You_ like Elle! Stop projecting onto me!”

“I’m not projecting! You—oh, my _God,_ I watched you make him waffles this morning! You like him!”

“That doesn’t mean I like him! That just means I felt like making waffles,” Bitty hedges.

Elle gives him a sardonic look, and Bitty explodes.

“Okay! So maybe I like him a little! That doesn’t mean I _like_ him, like him, it just means that I’m fond of him! That I think he’s great! I mean, who wouldn’t, this is _Kent Parson_ we’re talking about, the man is the epitome of attractiveness.”

“Oh, so you admit he’s attractive.”

“I have eyes, of course I do! I—I—oh, my God, I _like_ him,” Bitty moans, covering his face with his hands.

Elle comes over and nuzzles his hair consolingly. “At least this time we know they aren’t straight,” she points out.

Bitty just groans louder.

 

___

 

Unbeknownst to Bitty and Elle, at that exact same moment, somewhere in the locker room of a nearby gym, Kent and Val are having a similar epiphany.

See, the past week or so has been going great for them—fantastic, really. They get to listen to Jack tell dorky history jokes, they get to make Isolde laugh that honking laugh of hers, they get to eat Bitty’s cooking straight out of the oven, they get to watch Elle smile each and every day—

And they get to totally fuck themselves over by going and falling in love with all _four_ of them.

“Oh, God, we’re so fucked,” Kent moans. “Why do we always do this to ourselves, huh?”

Val sighs. “I dunno, Kenny. Maybe we should just accept we’re idiots when it comes to love.”

“But why?” Kent complains. “Why can’t we fall in love with somebody who’s awesome _and_ attainable? Why do we have to fall for people who are already taken _by each other?”_

Val places her head in his lap and sighs. “I dunno,” she repeats. “Maybe we’re cursed.”

“Maybe,” Kent says darkly.

 

___

 

They don’t _do_ anything about it, of course. They’re not idiots—why ruin a good thing? Why risk the best thing that’s ever happened to them? They have Zimms and Izzy back, for _real_ now, in a way they haven’t since they were eighteen and scared shitless in the back of an ambulance, Val growling away anybody who got close while Kent did his level best to hold Izzy together as she was disintegrating right in his fucking arms.

What they have now is enough, is _more_ than enough, actually, since Zimms and Izzy come with Bitty and Elle—a matched set, a perfect quartet.

So it kills them a little to see how happy they are sometimes, so what? Kent’s been on the outside looking in before, and he’s survived it. He’s not going to make the people he loves feel sad or guilty just because they don’t love him back the same way, and Val won’t either.

They’re going to be fine. Zimms and Izzy are happy with Bitty and Elle, and he and Val are going to do everything in their power to make sure it stays that way.

 

___

 

When he goes to see Carrie in Boston, she takes one look at him and outright winces.

“Shit, bro,” she says, holding him at arm’s length and appraising him with a critical eye, “I didn’t think you’d take the breakup so badly. You look like hell.”

Oh, right. The breakup. Funny how that hadn’t crossed his mind in days. Kent shrugs, weirdly glad for the ready-made excuse; Carrie’s always been too good at reading his feelings for him to pass off his latest heartache as no big deal. She and Dair are a little more careful with him as a result, which means that only fifty percent of the things they say to him are chirps, as opposed to the usual ninety-nine.

It’s good, though—he’s glad to see her, and it soothes something in him to be amongst people who love him fiercely, without reserve. It reminds him that he’s hardly gonna die alone, even _if_ his love life’s shit—not with a family like this.

And, well, if worse comes to worst, he and Val will always have each other.

 

___

 

He’s whistling when he gets back to Jack and Bitty’s apartment, taking the steps two at a time, a weight lifted off his shoulders, his sunny mood a stark contrast to the rainy skies outside.

“I’m siiiiiiiiingin’ in the rain—I’m siiiiingin’ in the raaaaaain,” he serenades.

“You’re such a dork,” Val tells him, but he just grins at her.

“Come on, you love it,” he says, laughing, and when he swings around to knock on the door, copying Gene Kelly’s dance moves, he ends up chest to chest with Jack, who’s standing there in the already open doorway.

“Shit,” Kent says, barely stopping himself from colliding with him. “Heya. Uh, I didn’t see you there, sorry,” he says, feeling himself flush as Jack tilts his head to look down at him. Kent could count his ridiculously long lashes, if he wanted.

 _Too close, too close,_ Kent thinks.

“Were you singing, Parse?” Jack asks slowly, and Kent laughs, nervous, raising a hand to the back of his head as he takes a step back.

“No, I wasn’t—whatever gave you that idea?” he says, willing his heartrate to slow down some.

Jack eyes him suspiciously, Isolde at his feet doing the same. “I could’ve sworn I heard you,” Jack says, his brows furrowed.

“Nope. Couldn’t have,” Kent lies, then hastily changes the subject: “Also, not be that pushy guest or anything, but aren’t you going to let me in?”

“Oh,” Jack says, looking sheepish. “Sorry about that.”

Kent flashes him a ready grin. “No problem, Jack,” he says, easing past him, careful not to brush against him. Val’s not quite so meticulous with Isolde, nuzzling her affectionately as she passes by, but at least she keeps it brief.

(See? They can be good. They’ve been getting better at the whole physical contact thing all the time—this way, nobody can accuse them of being too clingy, and Jack and Isolde won’t feel the need to pull away from them. Win-win for everyone involved.)

“How was Carrie?” Jack asks as he closes the door behind them.

“Oh, she was great,” Kent says, putting away his—well, Jack’s, actually, since he borrowed it—umbrella. “Sends her love and everything.” He takes his shoes off in the foyer, leaving them on the floor—Bitty’s at work, so Elle’s not around to make off with them. Jack follows close behind, and when Kent straightens, he would’ve sworn Jack was looking at his ass—

But that can’t be right, so he nips the thought in the bud. “What do you want for dinner?” he asks, shrugging off his coat and heading for the kitchen. It’s Friday, so Bitty’s likely to come home feeling exhausted and not in the mood to do anything but shit-talk his more annoying coworkers, so it falls to Kent to make sure they’ve got something to eat. Left to his own devices, Jack’s likely to just order take-out, since he still can’t cook to save his life, but Kent thinks he can come up with something better: “Hamburgers? Chicken stir-fry? Or maybe I should make lasagna—Bitty keeps talking shit about my pasta game, I better show him up, huh?”

When there isn’t an answer, he turns around, and Jack is standing there in the doorway with his arms crossed, staring at Isolde. He looks weirdly sad, for some reason.

“Hey,” Kent says, worried, “you okay, man?”

Jack lifts his head, summoning a small smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t mind me, Parse, it’s just the rain.”

Parse makes a humming noise. “Gotcha.” Rain always did make Jack a bit tense. Might explain why Isolde was sticking so closely to him, too—Kent’s noticed that while they maintain the normal distance when they’re out and about, they’re more likely to separate further in the privacy of their own home.

Whatever the reason for his mood, Jack seems to shrug it off in the next moment. “You should make the stir-fry,” he says. “It’d be healthier.”

Kent snorts. “It’s the off-season, bro. Live a little.”

Jack just shoots him a sardonic look. “Says the man who demolished three-quarters of a whole cheesecake not three days ago.”

“Yeah. Like I said—live a little.” But Kent goes for the chopping board anyway, and pulls out vegetables for the stir-fry, leaving them on the counter so Jack can start washing them.

 _Whipped,_ Val tells him, sounding wryly amused.

_Never claimed otherwise, babe._

 

___

 

When Bitty gets home, his heart gives a little leap when he sees Kent’s shoes lined up neatly next to Jack’s.

 _They’re home,_ Elle thinks, equally pleased, and, goodness, this is really getting dangerous, isn’t it?

Bitty ruthlessly squashes down his burst of happiness, only to have his efforts rendered useless when Kent pops his head into the living room and immediately grins.

“Welcome back!” he says cheerily.

Bitty tosses his coat onto the coffee table to have something to do, ignoring Kent wrinkling his nose in disapproval. (He never would have thought it, but Kent’s apparently something of a neat freak, even more so that Jack, who doesn’t mind Bitty’s messes as long as they stay on his side.) “What’s that I smell?” he asks, Elle lifting her nose curiously beside him.

“Stir-fry,” Kent answers. “I’ve got Jack on chopping duty.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we figured you’d want something other than leftovers. It’s been a long week for you,” Kent says, shrugging.

Which is perfectly true, but Bitty hadn’t known Kent had noticed.

“That’s real nice of you two,” Bitty says, his insides feeling like a gooey mess.

“Yeah, so go ahead and have a seat,” Kent says, nodding at the couch, where there’s already a poured glass and an open bottle of wine waiting for him on the side table. “Jack and I have dinner covered.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Bitty says, melting even further. _Get it together, Bittle. He’s just doing this because you’re friends,_ he admonishes himself, to no avail.

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Isolde assures him, trotting into the room, and Elle goes right to her, nuzzling close in greeting.

“Yeah,” Val seconds, entering with sinuous, graceful strides, tail lashing in clear amusement. “You want to talk about your day? I could do with a good saltfest.”

“You sure?” Bitty asks dryly. “Today was pretty bad, even by my idiot coworkers’ standards.”

Val bares her teeth in a wicked grin. “Wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”

Bitty grins back, about to launch into a description of today’s trials and tribulations, when he notices that Kent’s gone back inside the kitchen. He makes to follow suit, just to check in, but Val blocks him in the doorway.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she says, imperious. _“You_ are going to rest, and let my boys take care of it.”

Bitty makes a face. “Val—”

“I babysit our teammates’ kids all the time, Bits. Those puppy dog eyes won’t work on me,” Val says, rolling her own eyes. “So go turn around and decompress for a bit, sheesh.” 

She steps aside long enough for Jack to kiss Bitty hello, but after that she basically bullies him and Elle back into the living room, with only Isolde and herself for company; Kent and Jack stay in the kitchen and continue to work.

“So,” Val says, “saltfest?”

Bitty flops dramatically onto the couch, groaning as he throws his arm over his face. “You will _not_ believe the day I’ve had.”

“Mmhm?” Isolde hums, in that thoughtful way of hers that indicates that you have her full attention, and Bitty starts rambling about the latest ridiculous thing Malcolm, the Designated Asshole from Accounting, has gotten up to.

Fifteen minutes into his rant, he hears someone shuffling closer. Figuring it’s Isolde, he blindly stretches out an arm, intending to scoop her up so she can snuggle on the couch with him.

Instead of landing gently on her familiar, stocky body, however, his hand gets stopped sooner than expected by something a lot higher up, something living and warm, covered in fur that’s rougher than he’s used to—

Bitty’s eyes fly open in alarm to meet Val’s shocked gaze.

“Um,” she says, her head frozen beneath Bitty’s palm.

Bitty stares for a long, long moment, certain he must be dreaming. This can’t be happening. This can’t—he can’t be _touching_ Kent’s daemon, that’s not the kind of person he is, just casually laying his hands on someone else’s soul like he had a right to do it—

Then Isolde and Elle both gasp, and the realization crashes down on Bitty like a tsunami of delayed panic and dismay.

_“Oh, my God, I am SO SORRY—”_

 

___

 

Jack honestly doesn’t know what to feel right now.

He caught Parse belting out ‘I’m Singin’ in the Rain’ earlier, a song all about falling in love with someone new. He watched him immediately start planning dinner for Bitty, wanting to make sure he had a home-cooked meal to come to. He saw him practically beam at Bitty when he arrived home, staring at him with hearts in his eyes as he welcomed him back.

And now they’re here in the kitchen, and Parse is still giddy and obviously infatuated, and Jack’s torn between blatant jealousy at having all his suspicions about Parse’s feelings for Bitty confirmed; resigned despair, because it’s not as if he didn’t know where Parse was coming from; or a bittersweet sort of happiness, because even though Parse is in love with Bitty, he’s bad enough at containing his feelings that some of it overflows onto Jack.

And if Jack lets himself, he can pretend that the look in Parse’s eyes is for him, too.

“Oh, my God, how are you still this bad at cooking? Look at these poor vegetables. How did you end up mincing them beyond hope of any recognition?” Parse says, pulling him out of his thoughts. Parse grins up at him with unreserved warmth, and Jack’s heart starts aching all over again.

“What’s wrong with my cooking?” Jack asks, trying for teasingly defensive but probably coming off as coldly gruff.

Parse doesn’t take it that way, though, just starts cackling his head off at Jack’s apparently deficient chopping skills. Jack is in the middle of hip-checking him in retaliation when he abruptly goes silent, his mouth snapping shut with a click.

“What’s wrong?” Jack says, alarmed. Did he hurt him by accident? He reaches out, hand hovering uncertainly over Parse’s hip.

Parse shakes his head vigorously. “Nothing,” he says, too fast to be believed. “Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine, we’re—we’re good.”

Jack narrows his eyes. “Parse,” he says warningly. Whenever he talks like _that,_ Jack _knows_ it’s not nothing.

Parse bites down hard on his lip and drops his gaze; Jack gets a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Did he realize how Jack felt—?

Jack’s about to change the topic when Bitty yells, at the top of his lungs, _“Oh, my God, I am SO SORRY—”_

Jack startles, heading for the living room.

“Jack—” Parse tries to grab his arm, but he’s too late; Jack’s already in the doorway.

What he sees stops him dead in his tracks:

Bitty’s on the floor, kneeling in front of Val with his hands raised like she’s got a gun pointed at him.

“I’m so sorry!” he’s yelling. “Oh, my God, I didn’t mean to do that, I am so sorry, I should _never_ have done that, I don’t know what I was thinking—I thought you were Isolde! Oh, my God, I am _so, so sorry,_ I have _no_ excuses—here, _please_ do whatever you want with me, I won’t stop you at all, I completely deserve it—”

And with that, Bitty extends both hands in front of him, wrists up like he’s expecting to be arrested.

“What is going on?” Jack asks, bewildered.

Bitty looks up at him, near tears. “I’m a terrible human being!” he announces. His eyes catch on something over Jack’s shoulder, and he goes even paler, if that’s possible. “Parse,” he says, his voice going hoarse, “Parse, I’m so sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to, I swear it—”

“Bits,” Val interrupts, “it’s fine. We’re good.”

“It’s not fine!” Bitty shouts. “Val, I _touched_ you!”

Jack draws in a sharp breath. _Oh, God,_ he thinks, horrified. _Isolde, is that true?_

Isolde hesitates. _It was an accident_ , she explains.

Jack winces. No wonder Bitty’s so upset; this is a _disaster._

Parse clears his throat and tries to reassure them. “It’s fine, Bits, we don’t mind,” he says.

 _“How can you not mind?”_ Bitty shouts.

“Yeah!” Elle yells.

“No, uh, seriously, it’s fine?” Parse says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We’re cool, dude, we know it was an accident.”

“That doesn’t matter! I still fucking touched your daemon, oh, my God, I am _so sorry—”_

“Bitty, no—” 

“If you wanted to leave, I would completely understand!”

Parse balks. “What? No! Oh, my God, seriously it’s no big deal!”

“No big deal? _No big deal?”_ Bitty stares up at him, his eyes bugging out, before he scrambles to his feet and strides over to Parse, poking him in the chest. “What is wrong with you! Kent Virgil Parson, do you think it’s just fine and dandy for _anybody_ to put their hands on your daemon? Huh? _Huh?”_

Parse grabs Bitty’s hands in his, wrapping his fingers tightly around them and continuing to hold them close to his own body. “No, of course not,” he says, sounding exasperated. “But it’s not like you’re just anybody!”

At that, Bitty’s mouth snaps shut and his eyes go wide.

Jack gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. _This is it,_ he thinks.

“Wait, what?” Elle says blankly.

Parse immediately lets go of Bitty’s hands and takes a steps away. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, then backtracks quickly. “Wait, no, that’s not what I meant to say, either. I—”

“Look,” Val interrupts, “we’re telling you it’s fine. _I_ liked it, okay?”

Jack and Isolde both turn to look at her with wide eyes, hearts hammering in both their chests. They know what that means—they’ve known it since the first time Jack put his hands on her, all those years ago.

It means she loves them.

Parse, meanwhile, goes pale. “Val!” he shouts. “Why would you just _say_ it like that! Jesus Christ!”

Bitty stares back and forth between the two of them, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Does…does that mean what I think it means, or am I completely reading this situation wrong?” he asks, uncertain.

Val rolls her eyes, huffing. “You’re not,” she says, blunt as ever, and Jack can feel Isolde’s grief ripping through her at Val’s words. “Surprise! We like you!”

“Oh,” Isolde says, small-voiced, and Val swings to face her, her expression suddenly alarmed.

“Izzy,” she says, and Isolde shudders, “Izzy, babe, it’s not like that—”

“It’s alright,” Isolde says, tremulous, “I know you don’t—”

“I still like you, too,” Val says, straightforward and earnest.

Jack’s breath catches in his throat, his pulse pounding in his ears. Vaguely, he hears Bitty say, “Oh, my goodness gracious,” but that’s background noise, inconsequential in light of the flush that’s spreading over Parse’s face.

“That’s—that’s really not—oh, fucking hell, we don’t mean it like that,” Parse says, covering his face with a hand. “We mean it as _friends,_ okay, like, you guys mean a lot to us _platonically.”_

“Ah,” Jack says, the hope dying in his chest. Of course that’s what he meant. He was a fool to think any differently—

Val snorts. “Like hell I do.” She sits back on her haunches and schools her face into a serious expression, turning so she’s facing both Elle and Isolde. “Izzy. Elle,” she says, “I’m not expecting anything out of you, I promise, but I just wanted to let you know—” She takes a deep breath to steady herself, then plunges forward, the bravest person Jack’s ever known. “—I’m in love with you.”

Isolde freezes where she stands.

Val laughs a little, swaying slightly to the side, all the tension leaving her body. “Oh, God, I said it. Ha. Oh, my God. Well, there you have it—I’m so fucking in love with you guys, it’s gross. Like, I wanna wake up next to you every morning, and snuggle with you every day, and make you laugh all the fucking time, and I—”

“Val,” Isolde says, darting forward across the room, “Val, I—me, too—I love you, Val, I _do.”_

She tackles her head-on, mashing her sobbing face right against Val’s, and Jack feels the force of their collision reverberate right through him.

“Oh, thank God,” Elle says, and then she’s launching herself at them both. “Thank God, thank God—sweet baby Jesus, I am _so_ in love with you both, thank _God_ you feel the same.”

And when Jack turns to look, Bitty looks equally joyful, a radiant grin on his face as he meets Jack’s eyes, reaching out to link their hands.

Jack laces his fingers through his, feeling the rightness of it settle in him like gravity when they turn and face Kent, the two of them side by side and knowing exactly who it is they _both_ want.

“Kent,” Bitty asks, smiling through his tears, “Kent, will you stay with us?”

Jack’s heart can hardly contain his joy when Kent says, “Yes.”

    

___

 

Kent can’t believe this is happening to him. He’s got to be dreaming. That’s the only explanation.

Bitty and Jack are smiling at him, and Bitty asks, like he’s actually serious, like he _means_ it, “Kent, will you stay with us?”

“Yes,” Kent says, the word bursting out of him, “yes, yes, yes—”

And then Jack’s right in front of him, his hands firm on Kent’s jaw, tilting his face up, up, up to meet Jack’s ravenous mouth. Kent moans and kisses him back just as fiercely, trying to put all the force of his feelings behind it, clutching at Jack’s broad shoulders, his hair, his back.

It’s fine. This is a dream, so he’s allowed to do this, he doesn’t have to be afraid, he can come on as strong as he wants and they won’t turn him away—

Jack grabs his hips and pulls him closer, closer, and it’s all Kent can do to keep upright when Jack shoves his thigh between Kent’s legs.

“Kenny,” Jack says, his voice rough, “Kenny, I missed you, I missed you—”

 _Definitely dreaming,_ Kent thinks, feeling the pinprick of tears in the back of his eyes, and Val laughs through their bond, shoving all her emotions right at him.

 _No,_ she tells him, curling tight around Elle and Izzy both, _this is real, babe._

“Oh, God,” Kent gasps, wrenching his mouth away from Jack’s, his whole body shuddering and his knees finally giving out on him as the realization hits. “This isn’t a dream, is it?” he asks, dazed, clinging to Jack’s chest.

A pleased laugh comes from right behind him. “Nope,” Bitty says cheerfully, and then his hand is in Kent’s hair and he’s tilting him down to meet him for a filthy, dirty kiss.

Kent moans even louder. Bitty takes no prisoners, kissing like he’s sure of his welcome, tongue slipping inside with delicate precision. Jack is a wall of heat all along his front, hands holding him steady as Bitty takes him methodically apart, until he’s whining and begging between him.

“Oh, you sound so pretty, darlin’,” Bitty says, his voice low and sinful and going right to Kent’s cock. “Oh, yes, you do, you sound so good for me sugar—makes me want to eat you right up—”

“Please,” Kent begs, beyond shame now, “please, I want that, _please_ —”

“Yeah, Kenny,” Jack says, his hands hot on his hips, “we’ll give you what you need, sweetheart.”

To be honest, just the endearment alone is almost enough to get him to come, but somehow he manages to hold out.

The next thing he knows, they’re manhandling him down onto their bed, Jack’s hands stripping off his shirt while Bitty pulls off his jeans. Val is likewise caught between Elle and Isolde, both of them nipping and nuzzling at her, pressing close so that Kent can hardly tell which is which.   

“Kenny,” Jack says, “do you still like it like this?”

And then his hands are at Kent’s wrists, pressing them hard into the mattress.

“Yes,” Kent says, going light-headed with want and pleasure both. “Yes, yes, yes.” He arches his body up, groaning when there’s no give and he’s caught in place beneath them.

“Do you—oh, God,” Bitty pants, smoothing his hands over Kent’s hips, his eyes hot and wild as he stares down at him like he wants nothing better than to take him right then and there. “Do you have a safeword, sweetheart? We won’t go too far, I swear, but if you want us to stop—”

“Ithaca,” Kent babbles, “if it gets too much, I’ll say Ithaca—oh, God, _please,_ please touch me, I need it, please, _please—”_

“So demanding,” Bitty murmurs, Jack chuckling in answer, and Kent would snap something about the two of them being fucking teases, but then Bitty’s pulling his underwear off and pushing his thighs apart, spreading him open wide.

Kent sucks in a startled breath. “Oh,” he says, shivering, feeling Jack’s hands at his wrists, Bitty’s hands on his thighs, both of them taking what they want from him, and what they want is apparently all he has to give.

“There you are,” Jack says, satisfied. “There you are, Kenny.”

“Izzy,” Val moans at the same time, and they’re not going to survive this, are they?

Jack tosses Bitty a condom, and he rolls it on, agonizingly slow; Kent biting hard at his lips and whimpering to keep from coming.

“Keep your eyes open, honey,” Bitty orders, and then he swallows Kent down.

Kent bucks, the feel of it nearly too much. He wants to close his eyes but he can’t—Bitty asked him not to, so he keeps them open, panting hard as he watches Bitty move his mouth up and down, Bitty staring right back as he does his level best to suck Kent’s brain out through his cock.

“You look good like this, Kenny,” Jack says conversationally, playing with Kent’s nipples because he’s a terrible fucking tease—oh, God, he hasn’t changed at _all_. “You look like you like being ours.”

“Christ, Zimms, don’t—” he moans, and then Bitty does something with his tongue that has him rolling his eyes back, “Bitty, please, oh, God, oh, God, I’m going to come, please, not yet, not yet—”

Bitty pops off him with a groan, kissing his way up Kent’s body. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” he says. “What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me,” he blurts out, because that’s worked well for him and Val thus far.

And it’s worth it for the way Bitty smiles at him, for how Jack kisses him as they open him up together, for the way Bitty presses inside, thick and slow and everything Kent’s been scared of admitting he wants, Val whining as she lets Elle and Izzy pin her.

It’s worth it for the way Bitty cries out Kent’s name when he comes, for how Bitty murmurs every endearment under the sun as Jack wipes Kent’s tears away, for the way Jack shudders against him as Kent and Bitty jerk him off together.

It’s worth it for the way they wrap him between the two of them afterwards, cocooned safely between their bodies like they don’t plan on ever letting him go.

“I love you,” Kent mumbles, and he falls asleep before he can hear them say it back, but it’s fine.

He already knows it.

 

___

 

Bitty wakes up to something wet nudging his face.

“Ugh,” he says, trying to bat it away, and someone chuckles, low and pleased.

“Morning,” Val announces, and Bitty’s eyes snap open.

Once again, his hand is on her head, this time cupping the side of her face, her whiskers tickling against his palm. As he watches, she tilts her face further in, rumbling in contentment as she nuzzles him, Isolde leaning solidly against her as she watches them with satisfaction glinting in her gaze.

“Oh, my goodness gracious,” he whispers in awe.

Kent’s arm wraps around his waist, pulling him closer. “G’morning,” he says, voice still sleep-raspy. When Bitty looks over his shoulder, he’s grinning widely, his head resting on Bitty’s pillow like it belongs there. Jack’s there, too, propped up on his elbow, watching them both with a contented smile on his face.

“Kent,” Bitty whispers, his hand still touching Val, knowing Kent must be able to feel it. “Is this okay?”

“’Course it is,” Kent says smugly. “I told you—you’re not just anyone to us.”

“Besides,” Jack adds, “it’s only fair, considering Elle fell asleep on his ankles.”

And when Bitty looks, there his daemon is, sheepishly looking back at him as she lies shamelessly across Kent’s bare legs.

“What?” she says. “He’s very comfy to nap on!”

Bitty throws his head back and laughs and laughs, because he knows that means his soul is in love, and she’s lucky enough to be loved in return.

And honestly? That’s all he could have ever asked for.

“Well, Mr. Parson,” he says, exchanging a knowing look with Jack, “I think that means we’re going to have to keep you.”

Kent and Val’s answering smiles could light up the world.  

 

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, folks. Hope you enjoyed. <3
> 
> P.S. Please check out the other [Check Please! Big Bang works](https://omgcpbigbang2018.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> ETA: If you would like some behind-the-scenes look at how this fic came about, the outline is available [here](https://halfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/post/182997323360/omgcp-daemonau-bullet-fic) on my tumblr; also available is a [pronunciation guide](https://halfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/post/182996552050/pronunciation-guide-name-origins-for-red-in), a [rundown](https://halfdesertedstreets.tumblr.com/post/182997176505/omgcp-characters-daemons-headcanons-for-whats/) of the reasons why I chose which animal for whose daemon, and, best of all, a [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17571821/) read by the wonderful Khashanakalashtar. Did you ever imagine me being able to use the ao3 tag 'Podfic Available'??? I didn't, either, yet here we are!!! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, and I hope you have a wonderful day! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [red in tooth and claw [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17571821) by [halfdesertedstreets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfdesertedstreets/pseuds/halfdesertedstreets), [read by Khashana (Khashana)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khashana/pseuds/read%20by%20Khashana)




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